Silently, Invisibly
by hellseries
Summary: Sequel to the Resilience series. Read them first! When Natasha interrogated Clint, she found out more than she wanted to know. Now they both have to deal with the consequences.
1. Chapter 1

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter 1_

_[Author's note: In this universe, Hawkeye's origin differs radically from canon, but he ends up in the same place. This is a sequel to the Resilience series, and you need to read that series first to know what's going on;"I'll Fly Away" is part of the same continuity, but reading it first is optional.]_

In March, Natasha finally came down to Selvig's place, to test their resistance strategy against Loki.

Clint was so distracted by her obvious fatigue and stress that he nearly forgot to keep his game face on when she began her interrogation.

He knew, with absolute certainty, that she wouldn't damage him permanently, either in mind or in body. But even so, it was a terrifying experience. She turned him inside out. She manipulated his desire for her, his trust in her, his fears and insecurities, even the raw, still-aching guilt and self-hatred from his possession by Loki. Even his nightmares. Even, and the audacity of it took his breath away, even her own nightmares of being tortured by him.

He broke, eventually. She was kneeling beside him, looking into his eyes, cradling his face in her hand, her thumb stroking lightly across the left corner of his mouth, his anchor point. It was a terribly intimate touch that to an observer would have seemed a casual caress. He trembled and blinked, and she asked him, _Who gave you Vanya Chernenko? _He answered willingly, eagerly: _Jeannine. It was Jeannine._ Then she asked the real question: _What is your plan for resisting Loki?_ He couldn't look away from her. He dredged through his memories and dreams, desperately trying to find the thing she wanted, the thing that would appease her, that would end this hell and let him slink away in shame and surrender.

He couldn't find it. He wept and begged forgiveness.

When she conceded defeat, when she untied him and told him to get some sleep, the respect in her eyes was better than the water Selvig offered him, better than oxygen, better than…yes, if he could have only one or the other, better than love.

He and Selvig had beaten _Chyornaya Vdova_. There was a chance they could beat Loki.

He fell into exhausted sleep, with tears, sweat, and a triumphant grin still on his face.

* * *

He woke disoriented and off-balance, well before dawn, on Selvig's couch. _What day is it? What just happened?_ And more urgently, _Where's Nat? _He pulled on his sweats and went looking for her.

He found her sitting on the deck, wrapped in a blanket but still shivering. He sat beside her and opened his arms to her. She slid a little closer, so that he could put an arm around her shoulders, but she didn't lean into him.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, tucking the blanket around her more securely.

"No," she said. A long pause. "I shouldn't have asked about Chernenko."

He shrugged. "There were worse things you could have asked."

"That wasn't an apology, Clint." She sat silent for a while longer. "Was it you who took him out?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He hesitated. "They had to know by then he'd been made. We'd gotten what we could out of him."

"And?"

"And I figured there was one last favor he could do us."

"Framing me?"

"Yeah."

"One bullet to the back of the head at close range. Not your style at all."

"No. Meant to look like yours."

"SHIELD's idea, or yours?"

"Mine. They hadn't assigned me to take you out yet, but I knew it was coming."

"You thought it would look plausible that I'd killed him. You knew I had a motive," she said.

"I suspected you might."

"Should have been my kill, Clint."

He didn't reply. He focused on keeping his breathing even and calm, and hoped that would take care of his heartbeat as well.

"It was a point of pride for him," Natasha said, "that he'd worked his way through all the Red Room girls but one. And he finally got his chance."

"Nat—" He sat straighter on the bench.

"Shut up. You took my shot. You should know what it meant."

He subsided.

"I was partnered with him on a mission. He didn't have my back, and I got shot. He did get me out, and back to base, and while I was in the hospital, still under anesthesia, he raped me. I didn't even know it had happened, until I found out I was pregnant. My handlers…were not amused." She stared out into the dark.

"The only child I'll ever have," she said after a while. "Up in smoke in a medical incinerator."

He closed his eyes and swallowed. "That part I didn't know," he said softly.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew?"

"It…I shouldn't have known. I only found out by accident. I didn't want—"

"If you say 'I didn't want to hurt you,' I will cut you," she said evenly.

"I didn't want to compromise Jeannine," he said. "She overheard Chernenko bragging about it; she doesn't know it was you."

"When and where?"

"Nigeria. Back in '02."

"He was there to track you."

"I found that out, after I'd already skipped the country. From then on we just led him where we wanted him to go."

A long silence.

"What is she?"

"A friend. She was working for a charity group. She and Chernenko had crossed paths twice, and he was using two different covers. It got her attention, and she told me about it."

"And before that? You said she'd known you since you were ten."

"I…went through some stuff. She stood by me." _Don't ask, Nat_, he thought. _Not now._

A long silence.

"Hawkeye—" she broke off. He waited. Eventually she stood up, pulling the blanket more tightly around her. "Let's go inside," she said. "I'm cold."

He followed her, uneasily, half-expecting an explosion, an attack. At the door of the guest room, she said a firm "Good night", retreated inside and shut the door. He went back to the couch.

The next morning when he came into the kitchen, she handed him a cup of black coffee and said "Go practice," and he obeyed without thinking.

Selvig had already left for work. Clint stepped out onto the deck, slipped his armguard and glove on, flicked open his bow and began shooting pine cones off the trees, at the very limits of his range.

He found he missed the professor. They'd had little use for each other before Loki's appearance, but since their release they'd found they worked well together. Clint respected Selvig's determination and his agile, versatile mind. In turn, the professor seemed to regard him with a combination of protectiveness and awe. Clint could understand the protectiveness; he felt the same way towards Dupree and Hernandez, the other two members of the Mindfucked by Loki Club, despite the fact that they had gotten off much more lightly than he and Selvig had.

He'd emptied his quiver. He collapsed the bow and swung himself down off the deck, jogged off in a wide arc to collect his arrows. He moved through the neighborhood swiftly and silently, keeping to cover, conscious of sightlines, though most of the houses were empty on a weekday morning.

He missed SHIELD, or at least he missed having a mission. Eight weeks of furlough had long since elapsed, and there was no word from Fury or Hill.

_If they don't call, what do I do? _

He'd never actually held a real job. There had been a year and a half of college, then training for the Olympics, then three years of hiding out, sleeping rough until he took up with the circus. There had been dangerous men on the streets, and dangerous men among the carnies, and some of them had been willing to teach him some of what they knew. He'd spent every spare minute learning to fight hand-to-hand, honing his skills in secret to take out the man who'd murdered his mother—and as soon as the plan was set in motion he'd been recruited by SHIELD. His whole adult life he'd been Agent Barton: he'd worked for them, killed for them, risked his life for them; and then he'd betrayed them.

What if that one day with the Avengers was all he got?

He missed Coulson, his calm voice on the headset, his middle-manager nerdiness and the unexpected streak of _do not fuck with me_ just below the bland surface. He'd heard Coulson had gotten in one good shot at Loki before he died. He hoped it was true.

He missed Thor. He'd had a soft spot for the Asgardian ever since he'd first seen him, wading through SHIELD agents like a bull through a cornfield, not hitting them any harder than he had to, but laying them out one after another, even without his hammer and his supernatural strength.

He picked up the last arrow, the one whose black fletchings had a sheen of blue-and-bronze iridescence.

Hell, he even missed the damn bird. Huginn had proven unexpectedly good company. It had been interesting hanging out with him; the raven saw everything and said nothing, but his body language was eloquent and he had a wide repertoire of meaningful looks.

He didn't miss Stark, or Rogers, or Banner. Stark and Rogers at least had seen him as useful, during the battle; afterwards they'd barely acknowledged his presence. Banner had looked past him, or through him; the Hulk hadn't been within sight of him for long, and hadn't seemed to notice him at all.

_And what the fuck did they do to Nat?_ he thought.

He retrieved his empty coffee cup from the deck and wandered back into the house, headed for the kitchen.

Natasha wasn't there. She wasn't in the bedroom either. Neither was her gear. She'd left a note on Selvig's worktable:

_Dr. Selvig,_

_Thank you very much for your help and hospitality._

_Best wishes,_

_Natalia _

He packed his own gear, fighting down panic and frustration, and scrawled _& Clint_ at the bottom of her note on his way out the door.

Outside, he paused, tried to regroup. He could follow her; tracking her phone would be trivial if he connected to SHIELD's network, but it would draw attention to them both. Even without it, he thought he could find her; he'd done it before, when the stakes had been infinitely higher. But when he found her, what then?

And if he didn't follow her, where would he go?


	2. Chapter 2

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter 2_

Steve Rogers managed to answer his phone before voicemail picked up, despite the clumsiness of the hand wraps. "Rogers."

"Cap," said Natasha's voice. "Can I have a word in person? In private?"

"Sure," he said. "I'm in the gym, but I can meet you anywhere you want."

"James Hotel, in SoHo. Room 112."

"Okay. Mind if I shower first?"

"No rush."

He was halfway to the hotel before it occurred to him that he was meeting a woman in her hotel room at ten o'clock at night. He half-smiled to himself. No, he was meeting a member of his team. That took precedence over everything else, including whatever stupid ideas someone might get.

He thanked the cabbie, paid and tipped him. (He'd come to think of cash as Monopoly money; he still got dizzy if he thought about the cost of things in actual dollars. The rather silly-looking, multicolored new bills helped.) He tried not to look embarrassed as he strode through the lobby. Asgard and Stark Tower had to some extent inured him to luxury, but he still felt more at home in the Y than in a place like this.

He tapped lightly on her door, and after a moment she opened it.

The sight of her tore into him like shrapnel.

She was pale, dead-white as if from blood loss, and she swayed as she opened the door; she held on to the door frame to keep from falling. He caught her by the upper arms.

"Are you hurt?" he said urgently.

She shook her head. "Come in," she said. Her voice was softer than usual, and a little slurred.

"What happened?" he asked as the door swung shut behind him.

She shook her head again. "It's been thirty-four hours since I slept. I tried, but I can't…look, will you stand watch?"

"Of course," he said.

"Thanks," she said. "Call room service if you want anything. I gave the desk your name; they'll put it on my tab. Feel free to have the TV on; it won't wake me up."

"I'm not much for TV," he said. "Go on and sleep. I'll be here."

"Thanks," she said again and crawled into bed, still in her jeans and t-shirt. He doused the lights and sat in the armchair by the bed. As far as he could tell, she was asleep the second her head hit the pillow.

At 2:20 a.m. she sat bolt upright with a gasp. He didn't move, but said her name, and waited until her eyes focused on him.

"Steve," she said uncertainly.

"I'm here," he said.

She nodded and lay back down. She made it almost an hour and a half before the next nightmare.

That one was worse. She was hyperventilating, eyes wide but unseeing. It took him three tries to get her to hear him.

Once her breathing had slowed, he asked hesitantly, "Would it help…do you…"

She nodded. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and put his arms around her. She leaned her head against his chest, shivering.

"I'm here," he said again. He disliked making promises he couldn't keep; "It's okay" and "You're safe" had turned out to be false too many times. He kept still, no stroking, no snuggling, just a firm hold around her back and shoulders, solid contact and warmth. After a while she relaxed and the shivering died down. He eased her down onto the pillow and slid off to sit on the floor, but kept a hand on her shoulder.

He thought about the battle: her crazy daring, and her speed and grace, and how easily he'd launched her small, slight body into the air. She'd sounded so calm, so confident—"It'll be fun"—while at the same time her eyes were glazed with terror. She used herself so hard. This was how it was, how it would always be, when he fought alongside a real human: courage and skill more than equal to his own, in a body so terrifyingly fragile. He wanted to throw himself between her and death, but he couldn't; it would be an insult, a desecration.

So instead, he did what he could: he watched her sleep. And someday he would probably watch her die.

In an hour or so she jerked awake again, recoiling from his touch, but this time she was aware almost immediately.

"Steve. I'm sorry."

"Not a problem," he said. He yawned.

She glanced at his watch and sat up, scrubbing a hand over her face. "You can go," she said. "I've had enough sleep to get by on. Thanks."

He shook his head. "Don't mention it," he said, and got up from the floor. "Um…I won't insist on a debrief, but is there anything you want to tell me?"

She shook her head, but then paused. "Maybe." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Barton's…Barton's fit for duty. He's in the wind right now, but if you call him, he'll come." She sat still, eyes still closed, and he thought at first she was falling asleep again. "I'm…not a hundred percent right now. I think…" She trailed off, shook her head.

_Why did you call me and not Hawkeye? _he thought, but he said only:

"Bruce told me what you did for Tony. It's no wonder you're exhausted. How can I help you?"

"You already did."

He sighed. "I'd be happier about backing off if I knew you had support from someone else. Am I right that things are…tense between you and Bruce, and more than tense between you and Tony?"

"You could say that."

"And Hawkeye?"

She looked away. "Hawkeye and I are having a…boundary dispute. We'll resolve it. Eventually."

"That leaves me and Thor," said Steve, "and Thor's out of reach. Let me help. Or let me get someone else—Pepper?"

"Pepper's got work to do," said Natasha. "I'll be all right."

"I don't have anything much on my agenda for the next few days," Steve said. "Let me at least get you something to eat, if you're sure you're done with sleeping."

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "Get yourself something too. Put it on my tab."

He smiled. "You have no idea how much I have piled up in my expense account," he said.

"Actually, I can guess," she said, "since you never buy anything for yourself." She slid out of bed and slowly stretched upright, inch by inch, still looking infinitely weary. "Yours or mine, it's all SHIELD's money anyway."

"Taxpayer money," he said with mock-earnestness.

"A lot of taxpayers are still walking around Manhattan because of us. It's not too much to ask that they buy us breakfast," she said.

"So what would you like?"

"Anything. No." She paused for a moment and a tiny glint of life appeared in her eyes. "Blini. With caviar. And a mimosa."

"I don't even know what blini is—"

"Are," she corrected.

"—Are, thank you, but I'm sure the kitchen staff does," said Steve gamely.

"They're similar to crepes," said Natasha helpfully.

Steve smiled and shook his head.

"Little thin pancakes with sour cream rolled up inside."

"Gotcha."

"I'm going to take a shower," she said.

"How much time do you want before food?"

"Go ahead and call now; the timing should be about right."

He didn't bat an eye when she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, swathed in the thick hotel bathrobe, warm and steaming, slightly flushed and with fascinating little tendrils of damp hair framing her face. Not only had he spent several months traveling with a USO troupe, he'd just gotten back from Asgard, where they thought nothing of sitting naked in the sauna in front of all and sundry. Natasha was beautiful, but there were other beautiful women. And many of them weren't completely unreadable assassins.

Of course, rumor had it that if Natasha wanted that sort of attention from him, she'd find a way to get it. But that didn't seem likely.

"Don't sell yourself short," she said, glancing at him over the rim of her mimosa glass. "But no, I'm not going to make a pass at you."

Steve felt himself blush. "Glad to hear it," he said. "I'm sort of provisionally taken."

She smiled. "Someday when we both have time, I want to hear about Asgard. And Sif."

"Why not now?" he said reasonably, removing dish covers.

"Okay," she said.

And so over blini and caviar and fresh-squeezed orange juice (hers with champagne, his without), he told her about his trip.


	3. Chapter 3

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter 3_

Clint sat cross-legged in the dirt at the base of the exit sign, doing a one-handed three-ball cascade with some smooth rocks he'd picked up at his last stop. His back was turned toward the setting sun, his face towards oncoming traffic. He tracked the trajectory of the rocks in his peripheral vision as he watched a mole cricket wander into, then out of, his shadow.

He shifted position slightly to ease the ache in his lower back. He was hungry, and his water bottle was two-thirds empty. If he didn't get picked up soon, he'd have to find a sheltered place to spend the night. There were no buildings in sight, but there was a scraggly clump of junipers just over the rise to his left—he could see their tops—that might at least cut the wind.

He switched to his right hand to give his left arm a rest. A few more cars passed without slowing down, and he uncapped his water bottle and finished it off without pausing in his juggling. As he set the bottle down, a green Ford F-150 slowed and put on its blinker. He tossed the rocks high, one after the other, caught them behind his back and tucked them in his jacket pocket as he stood, and then dusted off the seat of his jeans.

The truck had pulled off the road just short of the exit ramp. The passenger side window rolled down as he approached.

"Where you headed?" asked the driver, a heavy, grey-haired man in a rumpled black sweatshirt.

"California," said Clint.

"Anyplace in particular?"

"Oakland."

"Okay. I'm heading for Vegas, but I can take you as far as Flagstaff. Or Kingman, I guess, if you don't mind getting off in the middle of nowhere."

"Either's fine," said Clint, picking up his duffel bag and tucking the empty water bottle inside. He set the bag in the back of the truck and climbed into the passenger seat.

"Terry Williams," said the driver, extending a hand.

"James Barton," said Clint, taking it. "Thanks for the ride."

"I'm a writer," said Terry, pulling back out onto the interstate. "Freelance. Heading out to Vegas to do a story on a hotel demolition."

Clint nodded, and noted with interest that the driver neither asked nor implied a question in return.

"You have any objection to the radio?" Terry asked after a few more miles.

"Nope," said Clint.

"Well, if it gets on your nerves, or if you want to sleep for a while, just let me know."

"Okay."

Terry turned on the radio, which was tuned to NPR, and they cruised along for a while listening to "All Things Considered." After a piece on sea turtle migration and a recap of the weather, some experts started holding forth on prison reform. Terry scowled as he listened, but made no comment until one of the speakers said, "The truth is, we're treating these prisoners better than we treat our own troops in Iraq or Afghanistan." Then he muttered "Fuck that shit," and turned the radio off.

"You been in the military?" Clint asked neutrally.

"Yes. And, as a matter of fact, I've also been in prison," Terry said.

Clint limited himself to a "Huh," but didn't ask.

"In fact, the prison term was a direct result of the military service," said Terry, "and that's all I'm going to say about that, except to say that I'm not a deserter, and I never shot anybody I wasn't supposed to."

Clint nodded, wishing with all his might that he could say the same.

"How about you? If you don't mind my asking. Don't feel like you owe me any answers for the ride, though."

"Prison, yes," said Clint. "If you count juvie."

"I do," said Terry.

"Military, no. But I have been to Afghanistan," said Clint. "As a contractor."

They rode on in silence a while longer.

"Sun's getting in my eyes," Terry commented. "I think I might stop and get something to eat, wait for it to go down. That okay with you?"

"Sure," said Clint.

"I think there's a Denny's up at Highway 117," Terry said.

"Sounds fine to me," said Clint.

"You got enough to cover dinner?" Terry asked cautiously.

"Yep. I can chip in for gas, too."

"Not necessary. Just help me stay awake."

"I can do that."

Over gigantic, cheese-laden burgers and piles of french fries, Terry explained the story he was headed out to cover. "This hotel, the Harmon, was started back in 2007," he said. "They got it about a quarter of the way done, and found the contractors had been using the wrong grade of rebar, and the building wouldn't meet code. So they changed the plans, cut it back to twenty-eight stories instead of forty. But even then it didn't meet the new earthquake standards, so the owners decided they'd rather just knock it down. It's been tied up in court since then; they're supposed to implode it a week from today."

Clint thought about Stark, and his new-suit-per-mission habit. "Fuck it, let's start over" seemed to be the billionaire way of life. Though, to be fair, Stark had a reputation for considering the fallout of his decisions: environmental, economic, and social. Maybe it was Pepper's influence, or maybe Afghanistan had been a wake-up call in more ways than one. Also, he wasn't known for cutting corners. Clint smiled, imagining Iron Man catching a subcontractor building something that didn't meet specs.

"Ready to get back on the road?" Terry said eventually. Clint nodded, and Terry got the waitress to bring them to-go cups of coffee.

"Want me to do any driving?" asked Clint.

"Maybe later," said Terry. "I'm good for now."

Radio reception was spotty, so they switched to Terry's iPod. His taste in music was pretty eclectic, ranging from Ella Fitzgerald to Springsteen. Cynicism about war was a running theme on his playlist: "Hey, Ho" and "Fighting for Strangers" and "Last to Die" played in quick succession.

Terry glanced over at Clint. "You're thinking I'm pretty much over being a soldier," he said.

"I'm thinking getting shot at, or having your friends get shot, probably gets you over it pretty quick," he replied.

"Less getting shot at these days, more getting blown up," said Terry. "But actually, if that was all there was to it, I'd probably have gone back a couple more times. It's things like Guantanamo, or School of the Americas, or what happened to Bradley Manning. It gets to where you want to pretend you're Canadian, it's time to quit."

"School of the Americas. That how you ended up in jail? Protesting?"

"Got it in one," said Terry. "You?"

Clint sat silent for a moment. "Jumped another kid at school and cracked his skull for him," he said. "Lucky for me he recovered."

Terry winced, but said nothing. They drove on. Clint settled back in his seat after a while, and Terry lowered the volume on the sound system.

Time passed. Eventually Terry spoke.

"You awake?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna take a pit stop at the next exit. Get some more caffeine, maybe. I'm starting to get tired."

Clint sat up and rubbed a hand over his hair. "Want me to take over driving?"

"Yeah, if you're up to it. Just for a while. Till Flagstaff maybe."

"Okay."

They pulled into a truck stop. Both used the restroom; Terry went back out to pump gas while Clint foraged for snacks. They'd just gotten back to the truck and Terry was pulling out his keys when he stiffened suddenly.

"What?" said Clint, then followed the other man's gaze.

Terry had his eye on a couple who'd just gotten out of their car in the adjacent parking lot, which belonged to a small, shabby motel. The man had his arm tightly around the woman's—girl's—waist. She seemed unsteady on her high heels.

"Stay here, James," said Terry. He opened the door, reached under the seat and came out with a pistol. He tucked it in the back waistband of his pants and pulled his sweatshirt down over it.

"What the hell—"

"He's got a knife," said Terry. "Call 911." He began walking towards the other parking lot, slowly.

"Fuck," Clint said and pulled out his phone. 911 didn't work, but *HP did. "I-40 westbound, exit 277, need police and an ambulance," he said, then switched off his phone and put it away. Terry was halfway to the couple by now, waving his arm and yoohooing and weaving a little.

"Hey! Heeey! Y'all seen my little dog?" he called. The guy with the girl walked faster.

Clint slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and strolled in the general direction of the truck stop, getting out from behind Terry to get a line of sight.

"Hey man! You seen a little white dog? He just ran off," Terry called.

"Fuck off!" yelled the guy. The girl—definitely underage and definitely scared—looked back and forth from her captor to this possibly drunk lunatic.

"I'm just lookin' for my dog!" Terry protested, and the thug took the knife out from between himself and the girl and held it up threateningly.

And a rock bounced off his right temple, and he dropped like a sack of bricks.

The girl stood stunned. Terry's head whipped around and he spotted Clint lounging against a light pole, tossing a second rock up and catching it.

"Nice," said Terry, and turned to the girl. "Are you okay?" he said, making no move to approach her.

She nodded.

"The highway patrol's on their way," Clint said.

"Want us to stay here with you?" asked Terry. "Or would you be more comfortable just waiting inside the store while we keep an eye on this guy?"

"I'll wait inside," she said in a near-whisper, her eyes huge.

"Fair enough," said Terry.

Clint waited until the girl had crossed the threshold before checking on her former captor. Pulse and breathing were steady, but the guy was out cold. Clint looked up at Terry.

"If it's all the same to you," he said, "I'd rather not be here when they get here."

"For that matter, same goes for me," said Terry.

"Just a second," said Clint. He pulled two zip ties out of his pocket and tied the unconscious man's wrists and his ankles. Then he retrieved the knife (a rather flimsy switchblade), wedged the blade under the edge of the streetlamp's base, and snapped off the hilt. "Okay, let's roll," he said. "Want me to drive?"

"Sure," said Terry. He tossed Clint the keys, got in the passenger side, and stowed his pistol under the seat.

Clint started the truck and pulled out. About two minutes later they passed the Highway Patrol car going the other way, running with lights but no siren. The ambulance was about a mile behind it.

"Security camera's going to have your license plate," Clint commented.

"I'm not worried about it," said Terry. He glanced over at Clint. "Coming from a juggler, the rock-throwing's not too out there," he said, "but the zip ties are a little worrying."

Without taking his eyes off the road, Clint gave the Boy Scout salute with a completely straight face. Terry cracked up. It was a heartfelt laugh, not just a nervous adrenaline-dump giggle, and Clint found himself smiling along with it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter 4_

The breakfast dishes had been left outside the door and Steve had requisitioned a razor and shaving cream from the front desk. He was rinsing off when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He dried his hands, pulled the phone out and pulled up the text message. He read it as he emerged from the bathroom.

He sighed, and put the phone back in his pocket.

"Bad news?" asked Natasha.

"I, um…." he began, then ran a hand through his hair, feeling vaguely embarrassed. "I assume you know all about my history. Everybody else does."

She nodded. "In my case it's more a matter of recent briefings than having grown up with it in the background, but yes," she said.

"You know who Bucky Barnes was?"

She nodded again.

"You know how he died?"

"Yes." No sympathetic mumbling, no pitying glances. Natasha was really not like other people, and there were times when he was profoundly glad of it.

"Well. I found out…it seems nobody knows where he's buried. If his body was ever recovered, it must not have been identified. So. Bruce explained to me about this DNA analysis thing you can do now, and it occurred to me…." He looked away for a second, then braced his shoulders back and plunged ahead. "There were bloodstains. From him. On my old uniform. So I managed to get it pulled out of storage, and I got a sample, and got it, what do you call it—"

"Sequenced."

"Sequenced, right, and I sent it off to one of SHIELD's labs and asked them to compare it to the Army's database of unidentified dead."

"And they didn't find anything?"

"No."

"Did you check any of the other databases?"

"Which ones?"

"Italy's. Germany's. Russia's. If he wasn't found till recently his uniform and insignia might not be identifiable. And if there was a battle in the area later on, his remains might have gotten mixed in with others."

"Good thought. Do we have access to those other databases?"

She smiled. "I do. Can you forward the sequence to me?"

"Yeah, I think so."

After some fumbling, he managed to send the data to her phone. She typed for a while, then put it away.

"I appreciate this, Natasha."

"You're welcome," she said. "Shouldn't take long."

And sure enough, her phone buzzed again just as she was ready to check out.

She took it out, glanced down, and froze.

"Natasha?"

Her face was expressionless, but she was holding her breath. After a few seconds she looked up at him.

"Steve," she said, "this just got a lot more complicated."

"What do you mean?"

"I sent the data to SHIELD's information network and asked that it be crossmatched with all the other databases we have access to. I got a hit, but not from an unidentified body."

"What?"

She turned the phone so he could see it.

SAMPLE IDENTIFIED

93% PROBABILITY

WINTER SOLDIER

SECURITY LEVEL 6

CODE 99

REPORT REASON FOR

INQUIRY AND REPORT

FOR DEBRIEFING

IMMEDIATELY

"Winter Soldier?" said Steve.

"He was a highly specialized assassin; first for the KGB, then for the FSB after the breakup. He trained me. Back when I was first starting out. I thought he was dead."

"What does all this have to do with Bucky?"

"Apparently, the Winter Soldier _is_ Bucky."

"He's still alive? How is that—"

"It's possible. I don't have time to go into it. He's alive, he's on a kill list, and I tripped a warning by searching for his DNA sequence. SHIELD wants to know immediately why I'm asking about him. There's probably a team on the way here right now. You need to get out."

He felt oddly suspended; his thoughts were racing, but they seemed independent of his senses. He looked down at Natasha.

"You mean, _we_ need to get out. This is your kind of mission. You lead."

She nodded. "First we ditch the phones," she said.

She led him out of the hotel, into the subway system and back and forth between trains for a couple of hours. They ended up somewhere in Queens, caught a series of cabs, and finally ended up in front of a modest brownstone. Natasha buzzed and a frail, old-lady voice answered.

"Who is it?"

"Natachenka. And a friend."

"Come up, darling."

They ascended three rickety flights, and the door at the top opened to admit them. The woman who closed it behind them was tiny, barely five feet tall, wizened but lively. Her sharp black eyes raked them from head to foot, then she exchanged a hug and kisses on both cheeks with Natasha.

"I know who this one is," she said, nodding towards Steve. "If you're taking him home to meet Mother, I'm going to lose a lot of money."

Natasha threw back her head and laughed. "No, Galyushka, I'm on bad terms with Mother and Uncle both right now. My friend here and I were planning a vacation, but we've lost our luggage."

"Where were you planning to go?"

"Somewhere unseasonably cold."

"Tch. So you need to cover up well, then."

"That's right."

"Anyone expecting you?"

"No."

"All right. If messages come for you, what should I do with them?"

Natasha thought for a moment. "I've sat at your table with three men. The eldest is lost, the middle one is dead, and the youngest is traveling. If you hear from the eldest, show him this." She handed the older woman a folded piece of paper. "If you hear from the youngest, tell him where to look. Anyone else has no business asking."

"All right," said the old lady. "Will you stay for dinner?" She didn't so much as glance in Steve's direction, but he felt the question was aimed at him in any case.

"Yes," said Natasha decisively. "Will you make _pirozhki_?"

The old lady smiled. "Don't I always, when you come?"

They spent the afternoon making plans. Steve was well supplied with cash, but otherwise had nothing useful. He felt conspicuous, inexperienced and ill-equipped; luckily, that was familiar terrain for him. Natasha, by contrast, was in her element. The old lady brought her a new cellphone, and she immediately set to work. By dinnertime each of them had luggage, clothing and fake IDs; Steve had a handgun and a concealed-carry permit, and Natasha had an intimidating array of weapons that could all be concealed on her person (he suspected he'd only seen about half of them).

After dinner (the _pirozhki_ were excellent; they turned out to be little turnover-like things filled with meat and cabbage) Natasha gave Steve a crew cut and a fake tattoo of an eagle on his right forearm; she cut her own hair short, in a mannish style, and dyed it an undistinguished brown. Brown contact lenses and a weary slouch transformed her completely; he literally would not have known her if he'd passed her on the street.

"Take a look," she said to him, jerking a thumb at the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

With his stubbled head, his faded, too-tight black t-shirt with sleeves shoved up to show his tattoo, his low-slung jeans and thick-soled boots, he looked like the bouncer at a particularly rough speakeasy. He grinned, then, checking his reflection, transmuted the grin into a knowing sneer.

"Oh, very good," said Natasha. "Whose smile is that?"

"Johann Schmidt's" said the old lady unexpectedly. "And a very good imitation."

Steve bowed to her. "Thank you. And I'm sorry you had the misfortune to see the real thing."

"I survived," she said drily.

"Which is more than he managed to do," said Steve. They shared a look of satisfaction.

"It's getting dark," said Natasha. "You ready?"

"Ready," said Steve. He bowed to the old lady again; the courtly gestures of Asgard somehow seemed more appropriate than the manners of Earth. "Thank you for your hospitality, ma'am," he said.

"Thank you for getting rid of Schmidt," she said. "And good luck."

Steve and Natasha left on foot.

"All right," she said. "Let's talk. We're less likely to be overheard on the sidewalk than anywhere else."

"You said it was possible for Bucky still to be alive," said Steve. "How?"

"The Winter Soldier was found severely injured, buried in an icefall, shortly after World War Two," said Natasha. "The KGB patched him up, added some…enhancements, and recruited him."

"That doesn't seem like Bucky," said Steve.

"You're assuming he had a choice," she said. "I didn't. At any rate, when he's not on a mission, they freeze him again. So although he's been alive since, I don't know, when was he born?"

"Nineteen-nineteen," said Steve. "September eighth."

"Right. He's aged very little, because like you, he's spent most of the past 70 years on ice."

"Good God," said Steve. "So every time he has a mission, he has to adjust to…what, a decade of changes?"

"Something like that," she said. "They kept him active for several years in a row when I knew him, but he's been out of sight since…2003? Subjectively, he's only aged about ten years since he woke up the first time, in the early '50s. You probably wouldn't notice the difference; the enhancements make him heal faster, and they slow down the aging process too. But there is one big difference; his left arm was amputated at the shoulder, and replaced with a weaponized prosthesis. Sort of like Tony's armor, but there's no real arm inside it."

Steve felt queasy. "Is it permanently attached to him?"

"No. They planned for upgrades and repairs. The socket's permanently attached, but the arm itself comes off."

"And you…knew him well?"

"Yes. He was my mentor. And eventually, my lover."

Steve studied her. "That's…encouraging. You have excellent judgment."

She studied him in turn. "And you're surprisingly inclined to trust it."

He nodded. "It's worked well so far. What's our plan?"

"First and foremost, to keep us out of a SHIELD interrogation room. Second, try to locate the Soldier, see if he's awake and what his mission is."

"Do you think you can bring him in? Turn him?"

"Like Hawkeye did me? No. I don't think so. He is extremely loyal. In fact, he's likely to shoot me on sight. On the other hand, if it's possible to recover his memories of you, of the Commandos and the war—you might be able to bring him in."

"If we can keep SHIELD from killing him, or capturing us, long enough to try."

"There is that, yes."


	5. Chapter 5

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Five_

"Coming up on Flagstaff," Clint said. "You want to stop here?"

Terry yawned. "Yeah. Sounds good. You want to go on to Kingman, or is this where you get off?"

"Whatever works for you."

Terry yawned again. "I'm easy. You're welcome to ride all the way to Vegas, if you want; it's not really that far out of your way if you want to take I-15 instead of I-40."

Clint thought about it. He was enjoying Terry's company, and the guy was refreshingly un-nosy, particularly for a writer.

"I wouldn't mind sticking with you for a while," he said at last, "but lodging's pricey in Vegas."

"Want to share a room?" said Terry.

"No thanks," said Clint.

"Well, there's some cheaper places on the outskirts, but they're pretty sketchy."

"I'm okay with sketchy," said Clint.

Terry nodded. Clint spotted a truck stop and pulled in.

As they got out of the truck, Clint remembered that he'd turned off his phone, and he turned it on again.

Three new text messages. All high priority. Two from SHIELD and one from Tony Stark.

"Go on, Terry," he said. "I'll catch up."

Unencrypted, the messages read:

_FROM: SHIELD HQ_

_All resources: Agent Natasha _

_Romanov urgently sought. Has_

_not responded to orders. Do _

_not approach, but if you have _

_information or make _

_contact, report immediately _

_and maintain surveillance._

_FROM: Nick Fury_

_Barton, where the hell is your _

_partner? Report ASAP._

_FROM: Tony Stark_

_Hey, Natty Bumppo: WTF is up _

_with Romanov and Rogers? _

_Hint: Jarvis is tapped in to ALL _

_Stark Industries properties._

"Interesting," said Clint to himself.

He answered only the second message:

_Not with me, left no fwding address._

_What's up?_

And Fury replied immediately:

_I know you can get word to her._

_Tell her to come in NOW. And you_

_do the same._

Clint sent back:

_I'll do my best._

"When Hell freezes over," he added aloud. He turned the phone off again. Then he rummaged in his bag. He came out with a coil of wire and a small rare-earth magnet. He attached the magnet to one end of the wire and wrapped the other end securely around his phone. Then he headed into the truck stop. On his way there, he tossed the phone on top of one of the container trucks idling near the pumps. He smiled as he heard the sharp _clack_ of the magnet against the cargo container.

"Actually," said Clint as he found Terry near the cash register, "I think I'll head into Vegas after all."

"Okay," said Terry, looking somewhat surprised. "Where to?"

"Think I'll take a look at one of the casinos," Clint replied. "I feel lucky."

They drove the rest of the way into Las Vegas without making much conversation, but as the traffic began to pick up, Terry said, "I became a writer because I like stories."

"Makes sense," said Clint.

"I don't necessarily mean I like _telling_ stories, you understand?" Terry continued. "Sometimes the story itself is enough."

"Okay," said Clint.

"So the story of how I picked up a hitchhiker who uses aliens for target practice is one of those stories I'm satisfied to know, and not tell."

"Thanks," said Clint.

"Thanks for the story," said Terry. "Where to?"

"The Empty Quarter," said Clint.

In a few minutes, they pulled into the casino's parking lot. Clint got his duffel bag out of the back and shook hands with the driver.

"Good luck," said Terry.

"Same to you," said Clint. "Thanks for the ride." He waited till Terry's truck had disappeared around the curve to stroll around to the alley behind the building.

A few minutes later he finished picking the lock on the service entrance, and he was in. The Empty Quarter was a small, mid-scale casino, which was 51% owned by Stark Holdings Inc. Clint re-locked the door, slipped silently down the hall to the door marked SECURITY, and placed his palm on the access panel.

The panel lit up. The door didn't open, but a familiar voice came from the speaker.

"Welcome, Agent Barton," said Jarvis. "Please proceed down the corridor to your left, and enter the third door on the right."

He did so. The room was an employee lounge, currently empty. He sat in one of the upholstered chairs and put his feet up on the coffee table. The flat screen on the wall turned on by itself.

"Good morning," said Stark. "Technically, at least." He was sitting on the couch in his lab, wearing a black sweatshirt whose sleeves appeared to have been gnawed off.

"You get up before lunchtime?" said Clint

"More like, stay up until breakfast," said Stark. "Thanks for checking in."

"It was either talk to you, talk to Fury, or compromise Tasha by trying to get in touch with her," Clint said. "What's been going on?"

"Well, the part you know already is that Romanov did something to get SHIELD's kevlar panties in a wad, and then disappeared. The part you might not know yet is that the last thing she did before everybody went all Code Gaga was to try to match a DNA sequence, which turned out to belong to someone called the Winter Soldier—"

"Shit," said Clint.

"—which I know only because of my nasty habit of eavesdropping on other people's computer networks, you're welcome—"

"And?"

"—and the part nobody knows but me, and now you, is that Rogers is with her, and that the DNA question originated with him."

Clint frowned. "Okay, that last part? Makes zero sense."

"I agree. But one thing I'm sure of. No matter how paranoid anybody wants to get about Romanov, and I admit she's scary, especially with needles, there is no way, no fucking way, that anyone is going to convince me that Captain America is a double agent."

"No. And Tasha's not either."

"I'm prepared to take your word on that. I'm covering for Rogers, by the way; he's supposedly out at my place in the Hamptons for a couple of weeks of R&R. So at least anyone who goes after Natasha won't expect to find him with her; it might make a difference."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. I, oddly enough, trust all of you. I don't trust Fury, and I trust his bosses even less. So. Romanov's got a problem, and I think you're better placed to help her than I am, plus being considerably less conspicuous. So in exchange for a small token of your appreciation, I'm prepared to offer you whatever help I can."

"What kind of token?"

"Tell me about the Winter Soldier."

Clint thought it over for a moment. He found he too trusted the other Avengers more than he trusted the organization he'd spent the past fifteen years with. That…was disturbing. But, given his history with Tasha, not unprecedented.

"The Winter Soldier is a Russian assassin," he said to Stark. "He's one of the people who trained Tasha. He got the nickname because they keep him in cryogenic stasis except when he's actually on missions. He's eighty or ninety years old, but since he doesn't age when he's frozen, he looks about mid-thirties."

"Like Rogers," said Stark.

"Yeah, in a way. If Rogers were a brainwashed killing machine with a cybernetic arm." He sighed. "No, that's not fair. The Soldier's human. Tasha…they were close. Really close. To the extent that, if he'd been awake at the time, I don't think she would have turned."

"So why is she looking for him now?"

"I don't know. The last we heard, he was supposed to be dead. She must have gotten some new intel. Judging by SHIELD's reaction, they either knew he was still alive, or they know now."

"And what's Rogers' involvement?"

"Damned if I know."

"Okay. I assume you have ways of communicating with her without getting SHIELD's attention, and I won't ask. But what can I do to help?"

Clint pondered the question. "Get me a place to sleep tonight. Get me a secure phone. Get me some cash, or an untraceable credit card. And assuming I can make contact with Tasha, I'll need transportation."

"Okay," said Stark. "Give Jarvis the name you're using and he'll take care of your hotel reservations and have a rental car on standby. I'll have someone deliver the phone, cash and card to the hotel front desk. I've got to go establish an alibi and bring Bruce up to speed. Call me when you know what kind of transportation you'll need."

"Thanks," said Clint.

"Don't mention it," said Stark. "I'm gonna go put on a tux and drive around in my '64 Aston Martin for a while. It has gadgets."

"Of course it does," said Clint.

The TV turned itself off and Jarvis's voice came from the overhead sound system. "In what name may I make your reservations, Agent Barton?"

Five minutes later he was letting himself out the service entrance into the sharp, clear spring night, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He walked around to the front of the building, hailed a taxi, and headed for his hotel. Once he'd checked in and picked up his package from the concierge, he sprawled on the bed and sent a text message.

_Privyet, Galina. I miss your pirozhki._

_Seen the Firebird anywhere? —Ivan_

It was only a few minutes before her reply arrived.

_She flew north, with an eagle for company._

_You know the nest. Tell her I delivered_

_her message._

He smiled.

_Spasibo. Next time I come I'll bring caviar_.

* * *

Notes:

Privyet (Привет): Hi.

Spasibo (Спасибо): Thank you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Six_

The safe house was a cabin, almost completely concealed in the woods. The nearest road was a New York State Highway, but it was in such bad condition that even Steve thought "highway" was a strong word.

"Tell me about Bucky Barnes," Natasha said as they sat in front of the fire.

Steve didn't answer at first. When he did, he looked down at the floor instead of at the Widow.

"I can't do that," he said.

"Steve," she began.

"Natasha, I can't," he said. "He was my best friend, he was under my command, and I left him for dead. I can't—I can't add any more to that account."

"So you'd let him shoot me? Or Tony? Or Hawkeye, or Bruce? Or you?"

"If he were aiming at me, I might hesitate," he said. "But if it were one of you, no. I'd stop him. Kill him, if I had to."

"You may have to."

"I know."

"If we work together, we have a better chance of taking him alive."

"I know. I know. I just—please. Give me some time here. I keep thinking I've adjusted, and then I'm on a flying damned aircraft carrier. Or armored space whales are attacking Manhattan. And now this."

She said nothing.

"Howard never stopped looking for me, they said."

"That's true," she said quietly.

"But nobody bothered to look for him."

"I wish I could say I'm sorry, Steve," she said. "But the truth is, he was the only one who ever showed me the least shred of compassion. Any scrap of trust I've managed to hold on to, I owe to him. And the first thing they'll tell him when they wake him up is that I'm a traitor and he's to kill me. And he'll do it. He'll never forgive me."

Steve smiled humorlessly. "At least it's no easier for him than it is for us."

Natasha met his smile with one of her own, equally grim. "And it'll only get worse when he gets my message and finds out who he is. Or was."

"Not necessarily," said Steve, gazing into the fire. "We—the Army and me personally—left him for dead. Does he really owe us anything? It was the Soviets who brought him back to life."

"Only so they could use him."

Steve shrugged. "Isn't that why SHIELD thawed me out? And up till now I've been willing to follow their orders, even though they're not the Army I signed up for."

"There are orders, and orders," said Natasha. "If Clint had followed orders, I'd have died in Moscow with an arrow through my heart. And everything would be a lot simpler."

"Simpler maybe," said Steve. "Not better. If it hadn't been for you, Dr. Banner wouldn't have come in, Agent Barton would still be under Loki's spell, and Loki probably would have won. Most or all of the rest of us would probably be dead, and the Winter Soldier might be leading a guerilla strike against the Chitauri somewhere in Eastern Europe."

"Unless Fury had followed orders, in which case the Chitauri and a good chunk of Manhattan would be radioactive ash. And we'd all be dead."

Steve heaved himself up off the floor and tossed another log onto the fire. "So much for orders. Let's talk mission objectives."

"All right," said Natasha. "We need to find out if the Winter Soldier has been activated. If he has, and I'm guessing from SHIELD's reaction that he has, we need to locate him and find out what his mission is."

"How likely is it that you're his mission?"

"Not that likely. I just very publicly helped save the world from an alien invasion. Killing me now would be bad P.R. Also, if they'd thought I was worth sending their best, they'd have done it years ago, as soon as I turned. Nothing I've done recently has cost them that much."

"Okay. Assuming we find him, and find out what he's up to, then what?"

"Then comes the hard part. We have to get him to talk to us. Or at least listen to us. That's not going to be easy."

He grimaced. "And me without my shield," he said. "But look, that brings up a question. Bucky knows my moves. If the Winter Soldier has no memory of his past, can I count on his not knowing how I fight?"

"No," said Natasha decisively. "You can't. There are different kinds of memory. Remembering the first time you rode a bike is one kind; remembering how to ride a bike is different. You can entirely lose one without losing the other. So the Soldier may not remember ever having met you, but he'd still be able to anticipate your next move."

"What happens if we bring that to his attention—how he knows what I'm going to do next?"

She smiled. "Good question. Under the right circumstances, it could be the first crack in the shell."

"Is there any chance of his getting those memories back, or are you just talking about confusion and disorientation?"

"I don't know. I have no recollection of my childhood, and it's not for lack of trying. But my conditioning started very early; he was already an adult. It makes a difference."

Steve studied her. He could read no anxiety or anger in her face or posture; her voice was calm and level. "How can—how do you live with something like that?"

"What, memory loss?"

"That too, but no, I meant, knowing what was done to you? How do you keep from, you know, running around setting fire to things?"

"I'm a traitor," she said calmly. "Isn't that enough?"

"How is it treason if you didn't have free will when you swore allegiance?"

"Well. That point's been made before. I found it convincing enough that I chose not to die for my country. But then, I have issues about following orders without question."

"Me too," said Steve. "Especially after Phase Two, and an attempted nuclear strike on New York City."

"Understandable," she said.

There was a brief silence.

"So tell me about Bucky."

Steve frowned. "It still feels like a betrayal. Another betrayal."

"Tell me one thing about him."

"You first."

"All right." She sat in thought for a moment. Watching her still, remote face in the light of the fire, Steve was suddenly reminded of a holy medal his mother had worn: Joan of Arc. The same strength, the same beauty. And Joan too had been lit by flames, in the end.

Natasha's quiet, passionless voice broke in on his thoughts. "When I was sixteen," she said, "one of the younger girls tried to escape from the Red Room. I was sent to kill her. She was twelve."

"Dear God," Steve whispered.

"I did the job," she said. "As quickly and as painlessly as I could. And afterward, when I got back, the Soldier took me for a walk. He praised me for being a good soldier and doing my duty and serving the motherland. But then just before we got back to the dorm, he whispered in my ear. And he said, 'Natachenka, that pain you feel, that's what tells you your soul is still alive. Don't show it; but hold on to it.' And he took hold of my coat collar and gave me a little shake, and ruffled my hair, and left."

Steve closed his eyes. He sat still for a long moment. "That's him," he said huskily. "He used to do that to me, when I'd gotten beat up again." He felt a wave of grief, worse than the grief he'd felt for Bucky's death. _I left him. I left him, and I didn't look back, even when I could have. _He drew a deep breath, cleared his throat, looked back at the fire. "There are days," he said, in a conversational tone, "when I really, really hate the twenty-first century."

He felt her hand, soft and warm, on his shoulder.

"Please don't," he said without turning his head.

"All right," she said, and drew back.

He looked down at the deliberately crude eagle she'd inked on his forearm. It kind of went with the cheap patriotism he'd been a tool for. _Performing monkey. Pretend hero._

"Bucky would steal," he said, as if continuing a conversation from before, "he'd steal food for his little sisters and brother, but he wouldn't lie about it, and he wouldn't make excuses. If he got caught, he'd take a beating, but he wouldn't tell them his name or where he lived, and eventually they'd let him go." The fire was burning low now, mostly red embers with a few blue and gold flickers around the edges. "When he was being held in the HYDRA base, he wouldn't give them anything but name, rank and serial number. He was only semi-conscious when I got to him, but he was still saying it over and over, even though there was no one else there."

Natasha said nothing.

"So if HYDRA couldn't break him, in six or seven days, with what I could see they'd done to him…I can't imagine, I don't want to imagine, what the Soviets had to do to—"

"Drugs," she interrupted him. "And psychological manipulation. Not torture. Or mostly not torture. He would have died."

"How many times?" Steve asked harshly. "They'd already brought him back once. Why not again and again?"

"Steve," she said gently. "Don't. What's done is done. We can't change that. All we can do is start from where we are."

"I don't know whether to hope he's still in there, or to hope he isn't," Steve said.

"Hope is irrelevant," Natasha said. "All that matters is what we do. What we choose to do. And then, what he chooses to do."

"Can he? Choose?"

"I think he can," she said. "He said I still had a soul. How would he know, unless he did too?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter 7_

Clint had left the transportation arrangements to Jarvis while he took the opportunity to get a few hours' sleep. The AI obliged him with a wake-up call.

"Agent Barton, the time is 9:45 a.m. You have a courtesy berth on a Stark Industries executive jet leaving in forty-five minutes; there will be a car outside to take you to the airport in twenty minutes. Please don't forget to pick up your dry cleaning from the front desk on your way out."

"Thanks, Jarvis," said Clint. _Dry cleaning?_ He shrugged, ordered breakfast and ate it quickly.

"I hope you enjoyed your stay, sir," said the woman at the desk, with a pleasant smile, as he slid his keycard across the counter.

"I did," he said. "Oh. I had some dry cleaning to pick up."

"Yes sir, just a moment," said the woman. She stepped through a doorway and came back with a sturdy black garment bag. "Here you are."

"Thanks," said Clint, and tipped her a twenty. He took the bag into the rest room with him and unzipped it. It proved to contain three black jackets, sleek and with an odd texture; there seemed to be metallic or carbon-fiber threads in the weave. One was his size, one smaller, one larger; the other two looked as if they'd fit Tasha and Rogers. Sandwiched between them, zipped into a neoprene case that would muffle any telltale sounds, was Captain America's shield.

Clint tried on his jacket. It was much less stiff than he'd anticipated; it fit like a favorite sweater, not restricting his movements even when he mimicked pulling an arrow from his quiver and drawing a bow. In the right-hand pocket was a little tab with a pressure switch embedded in it, and a slip of paper that said, _Experiment when you get the chance_.

_Okay_, he thought. He kept the jacket on and hung his bomber jacket in its place, then zipped up the garment bag, collected his duffel, and went out to the waiting car.

The jet he was supposedly deadheading on took him to Schenectady, where another rental car waited. By late afternoon he was close to the safe house. He turned off on a campground access road, paid the parking fee, and set off on foot. His duffel bag, converted to a backpack, went on his back with the new jackets stuffed into it and the neoprene-cased shield attached to the outside.

His new jacket, among its other virtues, was surprisingly warm and very quiet; no rustling or squeaking as he moved. As soon as he was well out of sight from the road, he stopped and unpacked his weapons. Bow, quiver, knife and pistol all arranged for easy access, he set off again. Once he spotted the plume of smoke from the cabin he slowed down, watching for booby traps and for other watchers as he came in on a long spiral path.

Thirty yards out he at last had a clear sightline through the trees. He snapped his bow open, fitted an arrow and fired. The arrow shrieked as it flew across the intervening distance and buried itself in the cabin wall next to the door. By the time it hit, Clint had changed position and was under cover.

One of the cabin windows opened slightly and Clint heard an answering whistle, on the same frequency as his arrowhead, with an upward grace note at the end. _Secure, but not alone_. Rogers was still with her, then. He broke cover and jogged up to the door. He'd just retrieved the arrow when the door opened.

Tasha had cut and dyed her hair and had brown contacts in. She looked worn but alert. He didn't see Rogers but assumed he was close by, probably covering the doorway.

"May I come in?" he asked. Tasha nodded. Sure enough, Rogers (with a new buzz cut and an eagle tat that looked too well-aged to be real) was lowering his pistol as Clint stepped inside. They nodded to each other. "Nice look, Cap," said Clint. "I've got some presents for you from Stark."

Rogers had already spotted the shield, judging by the gleam in his eye. Clint shucked off the backpack and pushed it over toward him.

"Thanks," Rogers said, uncasing the shield, settling it on his arm and eyeing it, either checking for damage or just gloating at having it back. Clint wondered if he got that same look when being reunited with his bow, and decided he probably did. It gave him a little twinge of kinship with the super-soldier.

"Galina said your message had been delivered," he said to Tasha. She nodded. He recognized the slight tightness at the corners of her mouth as a bad omen. "And Stark sent these." He handed each of them a jacket. Tasha raised her eyebrows.

"Uniforms?" she asked. "Doesn't seem like Stark's style. No logo, either."

"They probably say STARK INDUSTRIES FUCK YEAH in giant UV letters or something," said Clint. "There's a pressure switch inside the pocket on mine. I haven't tried it out yet, but it's probably some combination of weird and awesome."

"Let's find out," Tasha said. She slipped hers on and tucked a hand in her pocket.

"Fuck," said Clint a second later. "Okay, that's new." He'd been half-expecting invisibility or levitation or something, but what had actually happened was both more subtle and more interesting. His partner's upper body now seemed slightly distorted, as if by heat rising off asphalt, but his eyes stung and watered as he tried to focus on her.

"Interesting," said Tasha.

"I hope he doesn't mass market this," Clint said. "It's damn near impossible to aim at."

"Wonder what the range is," said Tasha.

Rogers had put on his own jacket, but instead of experimenting with the switch he was examining the fabric closely.

"Huh," he said. "This stuff's pretty tough. Wonder how it would hold up against weapons?"

Clint slipped his knife out of its sheath and offered it, hilt-first. "Knock yourself out," he said.

Ten increasingly vigorous minutes later, they'd determined that the fabric was fireproof, blade-proof, arrow-proof (for standard points at least; Clint hadn't tried explosives or incendiaries) and, so far as they could determine by testing on a jacket draped over an armchair, bullet-proof. It also shed both water and grease, and refused to stay wrinkled.

"So okay, now that playtime's over, can I get a briefing?" Clint said, stowing his weapons. "Stark said you two had some kind of lead on the Winter Soldier; SHIELD called out the dogs on you, Nat, but I don't think they know Cap's with you. Stark gave him an alibi."

"I did know they were after me, but not that they weren't on to him," she said.

"So what's up?"

Natasha gave him a brief rundown of the sequence of events, then said, "The message I left with Galina was for the Soldier. She said it's been delivered; therefore he's alive, and active, and he's been in touch with her, which suggests he's looking for me."

"What was the message?" Clint asked.

"His name, rank, serial number, birthdate, and a link to a cloud document with his DNA sequence and Barnes's file."

"Do you think he'll believe it?"

"I think he'll investigate. Whether he'll accept the evidence, I don't know."

They ate a quiet dinner of MREs, and then Cap said, "You look a little short of sleep. I'll take the first watch, Natasha can take second, you take third." Clint nodded, rolled up his old jacket for a pillow, and collapsed onto one of the cabin's folding cots, fully clothed. His weapons were within arm's reach, most of his gear still on his person. He spared a brief moment of regret for the comfortable bed he'd left back in Vegas. His last coherent thought was to wonder if Nat would ever share a bed with him again.

He awoke to the sound of Cap's voice shouting "Natasha!" and the _pop, shoof _of an incoming RPG. As he rolled out of bed the round detonated, right outside the door by the sound of it, and the walls and windows rattled. Clint grabbed his weapons and yanked open the trapdoor in the middle of the cabin floor. Tasha was just behind him; he felt her foot brush his shoulder as she dropped down. Faintly he heard the second _pop_; the ringing in his ears washed out the sound of the rocket's flight, but the tunnel walls rocked and shuddered as the second round exploded. He reached back for Tasha; she was crouched on the floor of the tunnel, trying to get to her feet. The trapdoor was open behind her and yellow-orange light and smoke were pouring in; the cabin, what was left of it, was on fire. He ran his hands quickly over Tasha's body; no obvious bleeding. He couldn't see her eyes, the backlighting was too strong, but she gripped his hand firmly. He helped her stand, then turned and led her down the narrow passage, her grip on his belt apparently enough to keep her upright.

They shuffled forward; he found the trapdoor at the far end and signaled Tasha to let him go. He popped the door and rolled out, snapping his bow open and putting an arrow on the string. The cabin was burning more vigorously now, and at the edge of the clearing the firelight outlined a form raising a rifle to its shoulder; its left arm gleamed. Clint fired, and the rifleman stumbled, an arrow sprouting from his thigh. He turned, and Clint's second arrow was already on its way. The incendiary head struck the metal arm just below the shoulder joint, and Clint averted his eyes from the piercing white flare of burning magnesium.

The Winter Soldier screamed, dropped his rifle and tore his smoking, sparking, half-melted arm from its socket. Clint was on him before he could draw another breath. His leg-sweep took the Soldier's good leg from under him; the Soldier went down flat on his back, slapping the ground with his outstretched arm to break the impact. Clint pinned his forearm to the ground with another arrow.

"Hostile down!" he called. "Report!"

"Red," said Rogers' weak voice from the ground in front of the cabin. "I'm hit."

"Green," said Tasha, some way behind him, sounding slurred. "Got my bell rung but I'm okay."

"Green. I got Cap, you check the Soldier," said Clint, and sprinted for the front of the burning cabin.

Rogers was mostly intact, but his mangled left leg was bad enough to make up for the rest of him. He was holding pressure on the artery behind his knee, but there was still a substantial pool of blood under him. In the firelight his color didn't look that bad, but the beam of Clint's flashlight showed him paper-white, with glassy, dilated eyes. His breathing was shallow and rapid.

"I caught the first one on my shield," he panted. "Some of the shrapnel got around the edges. The second one got by me. How's Natasha?"

"She's concussed, I think, but not bleeding, nothing broken," said Clint. He pulled a nylon tourniquet out of a pouch. "Here."

He applied the strap, tightened it, locked it down. Rogers released his grip on his knee with a gasp. "Thanks," he said. "I take it that was the Winter Soldier. Is he dead?"

"No," said Clint. "Might wish he were. He's burnt pretty bad. Speaking of which, let's get you further from the fire."

Cap slung an arm over his shoulder, and Clint helped pull him into a crouch. He was able to hop on his good leg, using Clint as a too-short crutch, and they made their way over to Nat and the Soldier. Their captive was still on his back, eyes closed, teeth clenched, uninjured leg drawn up, breathing harshly. She'd removed the arrow from his forearm and bandaged the wound; she'd left the one in his leg alone, and apparently the burns likewise.

Clint eased Rogers down to sit on the ground and checked him over more thoroughly. There was a deep gash on the right calf that was bleeding freely; he pulled a HemCon bandage out of his first-aid pouch, and applied it to the wound.

Cap winced but watched with interest as the bleeding slowed immediately.

"Nice," he said. "Wish we'd had those back in the day."

"Give," said Natasha, gesturing at the pouch. Clint handed it over wordlessly. She fumbled a little but managed to pull out a vial and a syringe. Clint got a grip on the Soldier's upper arm and his belt; the Soldier's eyes flew open and he glared at Natasha.

"Calm down," she said in Russian. "It's morphine. You're going to need it with those burns."

He stared at her a moment longer. "I'm habituated to it," he said. "You'll need to double the dose."

She smiled and shook her head. "Good try," she said, "but no. I'm not letting you go that easily."

His eyes stayed locked on her as she injected the drug. Clint released his hold as she withdrew the needle. The Soldier seemed not to notice him at all.

"Who finally managed to teach you cruelty?" he asked Natasha.

"Vanya, among others," she said. "But I've learned other things too."

"Yes, I know," he said. "The archer taught you betrayal."

"Oh no," she said. "I learned that long ago. From all my teachers but one."

The Soldier's lips twitched. "First, the words they want to hear. Then the knife," he said.

Tasha brushed the hair back from the Soldier's forehead. The tenderness of the gesture made Clint's heart ache. He felt hollowed out, breathless.

"Fight when you can," Tasha said softly. "And when you can't, endure. You taught me that."

"And hope for mercy, from the Black Widow?"

"Mercy? I leave that to God," she said. "From me, you can only hope for the truth. And the chance to choose for yourself."

She glanced up at Clint, and all the softness was gone from her face and her voice. "That," she said, "is what I learned from the archer."


	8. Chapter 8

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Eight_

_[Author's note: peppertheband, I love your reviews but I can't answer you because you're logged in as a guest! Argh!]_

Steve thought he might have lost a minute or two somewhere in there, but he seemed to be tracking pretty well. He remembered hearing Clint call for extraction; at around the same time Natasha offered him morphine.

"Don't waste it," he told her. "It doesn't last long enough to do any good."

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, just nodded and put the vial away.

"I'll take some water, if we have any," he said. She shook her head.

"Okay," he said, and looked around for a tree to lean against. There was one not far behind him, and with Natasha's help he managed to slide back to it without dragging his injured leg on the ground. He shucked off his jacket and tossed it to her. "Here," he said. "Keep him warm till our ride gets here." She nodded and draped it over the Soldier, who'd stopped moving.

Steve leaned back against his tree and fought to stay conscious. "Hawkeye," he called.

"Yeah?"

"Would you bring me his rifle?"

Barton disappeared from his peripheral vision, then came back with the weapon. It was a light, sleek semi-automatic, and it was loaded with odd projectiles like stubby darts.

"Thought so. Figured if he'd been after a kill he'd have stuck with the RPG's. Thanks."

"No problem."

"Make sure Stark gets a look at these. And the arm too."

The archer nodded. "Doubt anybody could stop him."

Everybody wanted the damn serum. It was getting old. Steve wondered if the Soldier had the same problem, with his own enhancements and his arm. Another thing they had in common, probably.

He shifted position slightly and jostled his wounded leg. He clenched his teeth and managed not to retch. Barely. He resisted the temptation to look at his injuries. His left foot had pretty much been in rags, from the quick look he could remember, and by now the torn muscle and splintered bone would already be starting to heal, to heal wrongly, into a misshapen lump that would have to be painstakingly cut apart and reassembled while the medics tried, and probably failed, to keep him under. He closed his eyes and immediately lost his equilibrium, had to fling out his hands to catch himself, and the wave of pain this time was much higher, much darker, and it closed over him like the sea.

He woke, briefly, when they rolled him onto the stretcher and carried him to the Quinjet, and again, for a longer interval, when they unloaded him. He twisted awkwardly, trying to keep an eye on Bucky. He managed to wrench his oxygen mask off in time to say a decisive "No!" when the stretcher bearers started carrying the two of them off in different directions.

"Together. Or I'll break your arm," he said succinctly to the one at his head, and apparently his grip was strong enough to be convincing, because the guys carrying the stretchers conferred briefly and then took the two of them together to an exam room.

"Capt. Rogers," said the medic in charge, "we need to take you for x-rays and an MRI." She was a short black woman with close-cropped, iron-gray hair; she looked determined enough to stare through a brick wall.

"I'm not leaving him," Steve said, "unless one of my team's with him. I can wait."

The medic turned away and opened her mouth to give an order, but he interrupted her. "Ma'am," he said, "I can and will bring this place down around your ears, with or without my weapons and my leg. I'd hate to have to do that."

"Get Hill," said the medic. She sounded severely annoyed, but not at all intimidated.

"What can I do for you, Doctor?" said Agent Hill's voice over the intercom.

"Captain Rogers refuses to leave the prisoner," said the medic.

"I want one of the Avengers with him 24-7," Steve called out past her. "Whoever's available. If nobody else is available, that'd be me. Not negotiable, Agent Hill."

"Understood, Captain," she said. "Agent Barton's on his way down."

"Thank you," said Steve. He and the medic continued to exchange glares until Hawkeye arrived.

"Sorry to ask this of you," Steve said in an undertone. "I know it's…awkward."

"I can deal with it," said the archer.

"Keep them off him," Steve said. "Except for physical repairs."

"You got it," Hawkeye said. "Go get repaired yourself. Nat's being checked out now. She can probably spell me later."

X-rays and MRI presented no problem. Neither did being cleaned up and having his vital signs taken, answering questions about his medical history, and getting transferred to a semiprivate room. The Soldier was already there, apparently asleep, and Hawkeye was with him. They'd saved the bed by the door for Steve. There was no window; anyone who came for the Soldier would have to get by him.

The medic from before, still glowering, was looking over his chart. "I assume this isn't your first serious orthopedic injury since you received the serum," she said.

"No ma'am," he said.

"Tell me about your experience with anesthesia," she said.

"Typically it only lasts a few minutes. If you give me enough to keep me under, it starts depressing my heartbeat and respiration too much. Best we could manage before was to knock me out for maybe fifteen to thirty minutes, tops. So surgeries had to be done either really fast, or in stages. Luckily I've never needed anything complicated. This one's probably not going to be much fun."

"How about a nerve block?" the medic asked, frowning.

"Same problem. Doesn't last. I'm just too good at detoxing." He felt sorry for her, having him come in here and bully her in her own ER and be the kind of patient who would probably give her nightmares. "Look, if it gets bad enough I'll pass out. I did already a couple of times on the way here."

"That was probably from blood loss," she said. "I'm not going to let that happen."

"Just pretend it's the Civil War," said Steve. "Only hopefully you're not going to saw my leg off, and even if you do I'm not going to die on the table. Just do what you have to. I'll make it."

"Doc," said Barton unexpectedly, "you might try touching base with Dr. Banner. He may have some of the same issues, and he's had longer to work on them."

"I'll do that," she said, looking slightly less stormy. "Thank you." She gathered her paperwork and left.

"Good thought," said Steve.

"Sounds like the serum thing is sort of a mixed blessing," said Barton.

"Yeah. Even apart from that whole everyone-I-knew-is-dead thing," said Steve.

"All but one," said Hawkeye, glancing at the Soldier.

"That's true," said Steve. "Thanks, by the way."

"You're welcome," said Barton. "But I have to admit that was mainly for Nat's sake."

"How is she?"

"She's okay. Mild concussion; headache, a little double vision. She should be fine in a few days."

"And how's he?" said Steve, nodding at Bucky's still form.

"Pretty rocky. Third-degree burns around the shoulder socket; second-degree burns on the chest, neck and face on that side and on the other hand. The wound in the forearm's not bad but the arrow in the thigh left his quads paralyzed. Bottom line, he's going to need skin grafts, and he might need a new shoulder socket, assuming they're planning to give him something in place of his left arm. They're also looking at some fairly tricky surgery on the leg. Assuming we can keep him down and out long enough to do it, without giving him a chance to cut his throat or steal something to overdose on."

"Get Natasha down here. She managed to deal with Tony when he was out of his mind. I doubt Bucky would be much worse than that."

"I hope not," said Hawkeye. He didn't sound too worried.

The Soldier lay on his back, his burned left side towards Steve, most of his face hidden by bandages, his long hair ragged and scorched. He was in restraints, and monitor wires and an IV line were draped around him like garlands.

"Are his eyes damaged?" Steve asked.

"Doc said probably not. They're bandaged mainly as a precaution."

"Ask her if they can uncover the right one. He has a problem with being isolated in the dark. From back when HYDRA had him."

"Will do," said Hawkeye, and left.

There was silence for a time, broken only by the soft beeps of the monitors and the almost-inaudible hiss of circulating air.

"I don't remember HYDRA," said a husky, drowsy voice. "But I remember the ice."

"Yeah," said Steve. "I know how that is. And in case you don't remember, I was the one who left you there. So no hard feelings for the RPG."

"Noted," said the Soldier, with what might have been the ghost of a smile.


	9. Chapter 9

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Nine_

Clint was on the range when Natasha caught up with him.

She'd probably been there for a while, but it wasn't until he'd made his last shot that she made a small sound, a little scuff of her foot on the floor or her shoulder against the wall, just enough to tell him she was there without startling him.

He looked over his shoulder, nodded to her, and went to collect his arrows. She waited.

"Everything check out okay?" he asked her.

She nodded. "I'm supposed to avoid getting hit in the head again for six weeks."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, be sure to put that on your schedule," he said.

"Clint," she said, "I'm not—this is not the day for me having it out with you. But I—" she grimaced, shook her head, started over.

"Damn concussion. Look. I know you have a thing about being overlooked, being ignored. I want you to know that this is not that."

"I know," he said. "You do what you have to. I'll be here. We're good. Or we will be."

She looked at him, started to speak, hesitated.

"Tasha. I'm okay. You know that."

"I know," she said. "I told Cap you were fit for duty. Back before this started. But…" she sighed. "Okay. I'm still pissed that you didn't tell me you knew about Vanya."

"I'm sorry. I should have—"

"Wait. I resented that you had that up your sleeve, that it could come up at the wrong time and throw me off my game. I need to tell you that…I have something of yours. That I should have told you. Jeannine told me about your mother."

Clint stood very, very still. He didn't even breathe. He felt he'd caught his anger by the throat just before it got by him; he waited, wondering in a detached way whether he should let it go.

"Why did she tell you?" he asked carefully.

"Because someone tried to break Marshall Gilbert out of prison."

"What?" The surprise almost made the anger irrelevant.

"That was sort of her reaction too. She said the only reason she could think of for someone to break him out would be to get to you. She wanted me to know something like that might be going on."

"I…that doesn't…who would even know?"

"Well, Jeannine herself. Anyone else who knew you back then."

"Nobody who knew me back then has a grudge against me. Nobody who has a grudge against me would have any reason to dig back that far. When did this happen?"

"Apparently, right before the Chitauri invasion. Don Dupree?"

"Unconscious in a hospital."

"Someone on the SHIELD psych team?"

"Possible. They do know about it. And anyone who knew to look for them could access the police and court records. But anyone inside SHIELD who wanted to set me up could just tell me to go wherever; they wouldn't need bait."

"Loki," she said reluctantly. "Or his agents, if he has them."

He shook his head. "Loki knows—he taunted me about it—but he also knows it's not even in the top ten of things he could torture me with. No. It doesn't fit."

He frowned, thinking. Natasha waited.

"Shit," he said suddenly. "Not me. Her."

"What?"

"It's somebody who's after Jeannine. She and her group—basically, pick a trouble spot, pick the nastiest power in the area, and Good Measure was getting in their way, helping the locals resist. Corporations, warlords, crime bosses, corrupt officials, you name it. If one of those people made a connection to her—she's not undercover. Her pilot's license, her records, everything's right there in the open. Anyone who tried could track her down, find out her entire history. Gilbert's not my worst nightmare—he's hers."

Tasha nodded. "That makes more sense. You going to bring her in?"

"No," he said. "She wouldn't come. I…wait, I think…hang on a second." He pulled out his phone.

"Hill. Is Dupree back on active duty yet? Uh-huh. Can I borrow him for a while? Yes. Yes, I know. Yes. I'm aware of that. I just need someone to keep an eye on an informant, and Dupree—okay. Thanks. Yeah, I'll call him."

He disconnected, made a second call.

"Dupree. How fast can you get to Anchorage? Uh-huh. Yeah, nothing yet but it looks like there might be. Yeah. I'll send you a briefing on the way. Thanks. I owe you." He disconnected and looked back to Tasha.

"He's got it," he said. "And thank you for telling me. I know it goes against the grain."

She nodded. "It does. But new game, new rules."

Clint glanced back at his phone for the time. "I've got to go. Cap's got some tests scheduled, and it's still my turn with the Soldier."

"I can, if you need me to," she said.

"No. I'm good. Get some down time."

Clint made his way back down to Medical. Cap signaled silence to him as he came in the room; the Soldier, as before, was apparently asleep. The doc had indeed removed the bandages from his right eye; the exposed skin was blistered but clean.

Cap wheeled himself out into the corridor. Clint settled into a chair between the Soldier's bed and Cap's vacated one, and looked up at the ceiling, unfocusing his eyes and letting himself sink into the sounds of the monitors, the air vents, the Soldier's breathing and his own. He relaxed into the timeless zone he could occupy for hours while waiting for a shot. It felt good.

"Barton," said the Soldier.

"Yeah?"

"Did you know there's a phrase that will turn your little Natasha into a sex toy?"

Clint turned slowly and looked at him. The Soldier had his head turned as far as he could to the left, but he still couldn't make eye contact. Clint obligingly got out of his chair and walked around to the other side, knelt so that he was face-to-face with the prisoner.

"Yeah. Now that you mention it, I did know that."

"Ever tried it?"

"No," said Clint pleasantly. "In fact, I sat with her while the psychs ripped that little subroutine out of her head."

"Did she scream?" said the Soldier with a gloating smile.

"Yeah. She did. Kind of like you did when I slagged your robot arm."

"Oh yes. I've heard her scream. You know I used to fuck her when she was very young. So sweet. So eager. So…compliant."

"I know that," Clint said. "And I also know that if you were the kind of scumbag you're pretending to be, she wouldn't have touched you with a ten-foot pole and surgical gloves."

He stood back up. "It's cute how you think you can goad me into killing you, _Tovarishch_. Your intel sucks. I haven't fallen for that shit since I was in high school." He half-smiled at the memory. "And even then, the poor bastard wasn't tied to a bed with a paralyzed leg and a missing arm."

The Soldier looked up at him. The fake leer was gone and his face was hard and still.

"Here's the only thing about your past with Natasha that matters," Clint said. "She trusted you. You abandoned her. You're going to taste that with every breath you take for the rest of your life. _Na zdorovʹye_." He walked back to his chair, sat down, tuned out again.

After a quiet hour, Rogers wheeled back in.

"Tests go okay?" said Clint.

"Well, they're not happy and I'm not happy, so I guess it's even," said Rogers. "Got the first round of surgery tomorrow."

"Want me to stick around so you can get some sleep?"

"No thanks. I don't need much. Natasha's supposed to come by after dinner; I'll be fine till then." Rogers glanced over at the Soldier's still form. "Anything new?"

"Not really," said Clint. "Tried to get me to kill him. I declined."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. See you later."

Clint headed back to the range. On the way he remembered with satisfaction a vacation he'd taken in Vienna. While he was there, a prominent Russian psychologist, scheduled to speak at a professional conference, had cleaned out his bank account, purged all his computer and phone records and disappeared.

The shrink hadn't screamed at all. He'd been too surprised.

* * *

_Tovarishch _(Товарищ): Comrade

_Na zdorovʹye _(На здоровье)_: _to your health


	10. Chapter 10

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Ten_

"I checked on your family," Steve was saying, "as soon as I was able. They're all gone. Dana died in 1945; scarlet fever. Charlie was killed in an accident on the docks in 1949; he lied about his age to get the job. Harriet got married in '61 to a guy from Jersey; both of them were killed in an auto accident the next winter. I looked to see if I could find any aunts, uncles, cousins, but I came up empty. The Commandos—only Gabe and Jim survived the war. Gabe had a stroke in '73 and died the next year. Jim died in 1980, of cancer."

He paused. There was no comment from the other bed.

"Peggy's still alive. In a nursing home in England. I haven't seen her."

"Barnes," said the Soldier's weary voice, "is tied to a hospital bed with third-degree burns, a wrecked prosthesis, a paralyzed leg, and a roommate who won't shut up. And at this rate, is likely to die of bedsores and boredom."

"You won't get bedsores," said Natasha from the doorway. "Even if you had a normal metabolism. The standard of care is pretty high."

"And you're here to take care of the boredom," said the Soldier, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well done, Natachenka. Your timing is exquisite."

"You're welcome," she said. "Don't get up, Steve. I'll move over here." She moved the chair to the other side of the Soldier's bed. Steve settled back in his own bed.

"So how long are you planning to keep me like this?" asked the Soldier. "More than three weeks, and you'll have to force-feed me."

"No, actually, we could put in a G-tube and keep you going indefinitely," said Natasha. "But I don't think that will be necessary."

"You think you can turn me."

"I know I can't turn you. But I also note that you're not dead yet, and that suggests there's still something you expect to gain from this situation."

"Rescue," said the Soldier.

"Unlikely," said Natasha. "It wouldn't be cost-effective."

"Maybe I just want to satisfy my curiosity before I die."

"All right. Ask away," said Natasha.

"How did he do it?" asked the Soldier, and the bantering tone was gone from his voice. "Barton. He's not—he can't have bribed you. He can't have seduced you. I can tell you're not mind-controlled."

"Maybe you misjudged me," she said drily. "Doesn't the record show that I was a double agent for months before I defected? That, let me see, Vanya found out and was going to turn me in, but I executed him before he could make the call?"

"Yes," he said. "That was the story."

"Your phrasing hints at a certain skepticism."

"Don't play with me, Natachenka. You owe me better than that."

"All right," she said. She glanced over at Steve. "Steve, excuse us a moment, because some of this you don't need to know."

"Want me to leave?" he asked, sitting up.

"No," she said. "Unless you've managed to learn Russian in the past few days."

"Not yet," he said.

"_Khorosho_," she said, and continued her conversation with the Soldier in her own language.

Steve settled back and watched them covertly. Natasha's tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a certain tension in her posture. The Soldier sounded skeptical, almost contemptuous; Steve caught the name "Barton" a couple of times. Then Natasha said something about "Vanya" and the Soldier stopped dead for a second and said something long that started with "_Nyet._" Natasha replied. And as Steve watched, the Soldier's demeanor changed. He seemed shaken, unsettled. They talked for a while longer, then broke off as the aide came in with Steve's dinner.

"I can offer you the dignity of feeding yourself, if you'll give me your parole," said Natasha to the Soldier, in English this time.

He was silent for a long moment.

"Damn you," he said at last. "Yes."

"Would you bring another dinner for Sgt. Barnes, please?" Natasha asked the aide.

"Don't call me that," said the Soldier.

"All right," she said. "Bring some food for the Soldier, please."

"Yes, ma'am," said the aide, and he left.

"Ask yourself," said Natasha, "Not just why they lied to you about your identity—that much is obvious—but why they sent you after Rogers, and especially, why now?"

"And if we're doing questions," Steve put in, "Did they order you to take me alive, or was that your idea?"

"You can't expect me to answer that," said the Soldier.

"Not really," said Steve, "but if Natasha can't tell by watching you while I ask the question, she's not the woman I think she is."

"He was ordered to kill you, Steve," said Natasha.

"Kind of thought so," said Steve.

"Damn you both to Hell," said the Soldier.

"It's good to have company," said Steve.

The aide returned with a dinner tray, and Natasha freed the Soldier's arm, raised the head of the bed, and pulled up a rolling table for him. He glared resentfully at the food (meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans—quite acceptable by Steve's standards), but ate it anyway.

"Me, on the other hand," said Natasha, "he was trying to kill. Did they blame you for my defection?"

"Standing order," said the Soldier. "Nothing personal, Natachenka."

She smiled. "The last time you lied to me," she said, "I was seventeen. And drunk. And you were trying to be kind."

"I liked you better when you were less competent," he said.

"Liar," she said cheerfully.

Dinner finished, she buzzed the aides. Steve noticed she kept a close eye on them as they helped the soldier to the bathroom and gave him his meds. She checked his restraints after he was put back to bed. A few minutes after that, Hawkeye showed up to take his turn at watch.

"Goodnight, Steve," said Natasha.

Steve yawned. " 'Night," he said drowsily.

"_Spocoynoy nochi_," Natasha said to the Soldier. He turned his face to the wall and didn't answer. Natasha nodded to Hawkeye and left. Hawkeye dimmed the lights, sat down and pulled out his phone and started typing. Steve lay still, listening to the almost inaudible keyclicks and the familiar sounds of the medical equipment until he drifted off.

He awoke to the sound of a klaxon and had rolled out of bed before his eyes were fully open. There was a dry-twig _snap_ from his left foot as it hit the floor, but he was barely aware of it. A voice on the intercom was shouting "Security breach! Chemical—" and was cut off by gunfire.

"Go," said Steve to Hawkeye. Barton nodded and sprinted out the door. Steve levered himself back up to sit on the bed. He got his holstered pistol out of the nightstand drawer and strapped it on. Then, standing on his good foot, he stripped the sheet off his bed, stuffed it in the sink and turned on the tap. There was gunfire again, not on the intercom but down the hall. Steve hopped to the door and cautiously opened it a crack, then took a quick look out.

"Hell," he said. A yellow-green cloud was advancing down the hall and there was a body on the floor, half-hidden by the opaque billows. He hopped back to the sink, grabbed the soaking-wet sheet, and wrapped it around himself, covering as much of his face and body as he could. Then he made his way out into the hall, using the wall to stay upright, holding his breath till he could reach the body. It was the young aide who'd brought them their dinner, and he was dead. Steve hobbled back to the room as quickly as possible, closed the door, unwrapped the sheet and stuffed it under the door to seal out the encroaching gas. Already his eyes were streaming and he was coughing from the overpowering bleachy stench in the air. Clinging to the furniture, he struggled over to the Soldier's bed.

"Doesn't look like the rescue you were expecting," he gasped, and coughed wetly. He started working on the restraints. "They're using chlorine gas. And if you don't remember what that did to your dad, I do." His hands were clumsy, shaking; absently he noted the blisters that had begun to rise on his hands and arms. "Don't touch me," he said before unstrapping the Soldier's arm. "I'm contaminated."

The Soldier sat up. "Hand me that brace" he said.

Steve nodded, picked up the leg brace that kept the Soldier's knee locked so he could walk, and helped him strap it on, being careful not to touch his body. His hands were stiff with swelling now and he was coughing hard. The Soldier had started to blink and cough as well.

"Cap!" came Hawkeye's voice over the intercom. "Report!"

"Gray," said Steve, and coughed some more. "Soldier's yellow. 'S chlorine. Can you get through the vents?"

"On my way," said Hawkeye.

Steve was gasping for breath. He was nearly blind now, his eyes and exposed skin in agony, but the pain went almost unnoticed under the panic of suffocation. He reached for the bed rail, missed, and fell to the floor.

_God, no, please_, he thought as he fought for breath. _Not again_. Something touched him, pulled him off the floor to sit upright, and he arched his back, struggling to open his airway. A strong arm was wrapped around him, a warm body braced against his back.

"Steve. Stevie. Breathe, buddy. Breathe. Breathe," said Bucky's voice, and Steve passed out.

* * *

_Khorosho _(Хорошо): okay

_Spocoynoy nochi_ (Спокойной ночи): goodnight

Note on chlorine: Wilfred Owen's poem _Dulce et Decorum Est _vividly describes its effects, and the CDC, among others, has more information than you really want. Horrible stuff.

Note on triage colors: The Avengers are using the SALT mass casualty triage system. Green means likely to survive without treatment; yellow, treatment can be delayed; red, needs immediate lifesaving treatment; gray, likely to die given the currently available resources; black, dead or effectively dead.


	11. Chapter 11

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Eleven_

Clint, for once, didn't have to worry about noise; just speed. Even if there were any hostiles still around, the klaxon would drown out any sound he made scrambling through the ventilation system. He found the right room, kicked the grate in, dropped to the floor, and looked straight down the barrel of the Winter Soldier's pistol.

Or Captain America's pistol, technically, but Cap was lying on the Soldier's bed, either unconscious or dead, and his weapon had been commandeered.

Clint didn't even bother to raise his hands; he just waited.

"Not today, I think," said the Soldier, and lowered the pistol. "You have another way out of here?"

Clint nodded his head towards the blank wall opposite the door. "Exterior wall," he said. "Tasha's waiting to blow it out for us."

"Good enough," said the Soldier.

Now that he could spare the attention, Clint could see that Cap was still breathing, but in sharp, brief gasps, occasionally separated by worryingly long intervals. With some difficulty, he slung Rogers' limp body over his shoulder and shifted him into the tiny bathroom. He eased him down onto the floor, leaving him propped up in the corner of the shower stall, and beckoned to the Winter Soldier.

"Here," he said and handed the Soldier two pairs of earplugs. "Look after him." He put in his own earplugs, then pulled out two tracking transmitters and stuck them to the wall, in the corner farthest from the bathroom, at floor and ceiling height.

The Soldier had settled himself next to Cap. Clint said "Ten seconds, Nat," on his headset, and squeezed in with them, shutting the door behind him. The explosion shook the floor under them and rattled the heavy wooden door in its frame. Clint waited a few seconds, then took out his earplugs. He stooped and, with an effort, picked Cap up in a fireman's carry. He drew his pistol and motioned the Soldier out ahead of him. The Soldier gave another crooked smile, then nodded and opened the door.

The room lights had been shattered by the explosion; the dim light from the bathroom behind them only served to turn the smoke and dust into an opaque curtain over the hole in the wall. It was more than wide enough, but they'd have to stoop to get through it—awkward for both of them. Clint killed the light to avoid presenting their silhouettes as targets.

As they cleared the smoke he could hear gunfire and see muzzle flashes to the right. There was no cover around the building's exterior, SHIELD not being comprised of idiots. The Soldier moved up beside him, watching their right side as Clint watched the left, and they edged forward. Clint heard a helicopter overhead, but it was showing no lights.

There was a sudden sting on his shin, probably a bullet fragment. From overhead there came a voice, Nat's voice, loud enough to pierce through the the gunfire: _"Zashchishchayte glaza!"_ Clint turned his head, burying his face against Cap's body, and he felt a sudden wash of heat on the back of his neck. As it faded, so did the sounds of gunfire. He picked up his head, then opened his eyes and looked around. The Soldier was doing the same.

About fifty yards ahead and to their left the chopper was descending; it now had dim, reddish lights trained on the ground.

"Let's go," said Clint, and he and the Soldier made their way toward the chopper.

There was less gunfire now, and none of it seemed to be targeting them. Presumably most of the combatants had looked straight into the strobe and were now effectively blind.

As they drew near the helicopter a fire truck pulled up and began spraying water on the smoldering wall through which they'd come. As the curtain of spray descended behind them, Clint tapped the Soldier on the back.

"Head for the fire truck," he said. "The copter's a decoy."

A section of the fire truck's near side slid open, and two of the "firemen" pulled a stretcher out of the interior, helped him lower Cap onto it, and loaded it into the truck. Clint and the Soldier followed. Inside, the vehicle was basically an elongated ambulance; the fierce little ER doc was there, already fitting an oxygen mask onto Cap's face.

Outside, the copter took off, rapidly gaining altitude. It turned, picked up speed, and headed off to the west. A streak of fire shot up from the ground and touched it. The copter exploded.

The Winter Soldier turned white under the burns and dust. His hand tightened on the grip of the pistol he still held. Clint grabbed his wrist.

"No," he said, catching the Soldier's eye. "It's a decoy. A drone. She wasn't on it."

The Soldier's impassive mask was back almost immediately.

The "firemen" shut the sliding door and the truck started rolling.

"So, obviously those weren't your guys," Clint said to the Soldier, "and I guarantee they weren't ours, though I wouldn't rule out inside help."

"Who, then?"

"My guess is they were either hired guns or homegrown terrorists, pointed at us by someone else," said Clint. "The chlorine seems more like the militia crowd than professionals."

"It's been a while since I was out," said the Soldier. "How likely is it that it was a genuine terrorist strike?"

"Not very," said Clint. "Pretty sure it's connected with you and Rogers. Somebody wants both of you dead. This inclines me to keep you both alive, at least until we find out why."

The Soldier gave him an ironic look. "Generous of you."

"You helped Rogers, didn't you?" said Clint. "You could have let him die. You wouldn't have had to lift a finger."

"If he hadn't released me, I couldn't have lifted a finger," the Soldier pointed out. "But…I had my reasons. Maybe the same as yours, in part. This situation makes no sense; I'd rather go out doing something I understand."

Clint laughed. "Another thing we agree on, _Tovarishch_," he said. He looked up at the medic, still bent over Rogers. "How's he doing, Doc?" he asked.

She was scowling; he wondered if that was her habitual expression, or just something Rogers brought out in her. "Damned if I know," she said. "Normally, with the Cheyne-Stokes respiration, I'd say he was just about gone. But this serum…he might make it. His O2 sats are already improving. Just get us to someplace more like a hospital." She glared up at the Soldier. "And those damn burns are going to have to be cleaned and debrided again," she said.

The Soldier shrugged. "The chlorine and the explosives weren't my idea," he said.

After about half an hour, the bogus fire truck stopped in a secluded area and Clint helped the medic transfer her patients to a normal ambulance; he traded his concrete-dust-covered clothes for an EMT's uniform and stowed his weapons in a go bag. By the time they reached their destination, some hospital somewhere in Massachusetts, Rogers and the Soldier had been stripped and wiped down to remove as much of the chlorine residue as possible. Rogers hadn't regained consciousness, but his breathing, though it sounded harsh and half-choked, was more regular. They'd covered him up with blankets, but hadn't dressed him again; the Soldier was wearing scrubs, with a blanket around his shoulders.

They pulled into the ambulance bay; there was a decon shower set up there. They carried Rogers through on the stretcher, then the Soldier, after he stripped down again. This time they removed his brace and bandages as well. He clenched his teeth as they cleaned the burns on his chest, face and hand, but made no sound. Clint followed him through, stripping down and checking the wound on his shin (only a shallow graze) and the clusters of small blisters where his cheek and arm had been pressed against Rogers' chlorine-permeated clothing.

The techs were waiting with warmed towels and fresh bandages and warmed sweats and bottled water and painkillers. Clint dried off, dressed, drank, followed the gurneys bearing Rogers and the Soldier down the hall. _Here we go again,_ he thought. _How long till they find them this time?_

Natasha was waiting for them. She stood eye-to-eye with the Soldier for a moment, and then, carefully, wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his unburned shoulder. His hand came up tentatively, and he stroked the back of her short dark hair lightly, once, twice. Then he sighed, closed his eyes and pressed his lips softly to the top of her head. They stood there like that for endless seconds, and Clint felt the wall going back up behind his eyes, cold stone to seal out the world, to keep him safe, alone.

The Soldier glanced up at him over Tasha's shoulder. His slight, sardonic smile should have been infuriating, but there was more pain in it than triumph. Clint didn't move. From an infinite distance Tasha's voice echoed in his memory: _You took away everything I had_….

Then Tasha moved, turned to him, and the memory snapped and vanished.

"Barton. You okay?"

"Green," he said. "You?"

"Green," she replied. "Got some intel for you. Let's go talk."

He nodded and followed her down the hall to a small lounge. She closed the door behind them and motioned him to sit on the couch. She took off her jacket and sat beside him, took his hand, draped her jacket over her lap so that their hands were concealed under it.

_Like this, _she fingerspelled into his palm. _No comms._

_OK,_ he spelled back.

_I talked to Fury in person_, she continued. _He thinks this goes all the way up to the Council._

_Well shit,_ Clint commented. _What does he think it is?_

_Rogers and the Soldier must know something. If they compare notes something comes out. Maybe each knows half a secret._

_So_, Clint replied, _we need both alive, and together._

_Looks that way, _Nat spelled.

_Fuck. Both need hospital._

Nat nodded. _I know._

He looked up at her. _Soldier kept Cap alive. Don't know why. Seemed uncomfortable about it._

She nodded again. _I will find out._

"Nat," he said aloud. She looked a question at him.

"Never mind," he said. He released her hand and stood up, eyeing the lounge's coffeepot dubiously. "Want some coffee?"

"Sure," she said.

He busied himself with rinsing the pot and finding a filter and a pack of coffee, then started the machine and sat back down. He leaned back a trifle, trying to relax; trying not to think about Tasha and the Soldier embracing; trying not to remember the gentleness and vulnerability in the Soldier's face. Clint knew better than to take anything Tasha did at face value, especially with an enemy; he also knew that, even if her emotion was genuine, she might be using it deliberately to manipulate the Soldier.

Presumably the Soldier knew all that too.

It didn't help. Seeing the Soldier's unease only served to remind him how precarious his own balance was. He and Nat would never have a straightforward, equal relationship. She would always be sure of him; she knew him as he knew himself. Probably better. He could never have that same certainty, would always have to trust that she meant what she said, that what he saw in her eyes was really there. Even when he had watched her lie to a thousand marks, with a look of purest angelic sincerity.

He watched the coffee drizzling into the pot, listened to the dispirited dribble/wheeze of the machine, and thought about their two patients. It seemed likely that Cap would recover eventually, but it also seemed likely that the Soldier would recover first; and then they'd have an able-bodied, wily and skilled prisoner to contend with, alongside a crippled and debilitated ally, and a powerful, well-informed and secretive enemy.

_You were the one who wished for a mission, you idiot,_ he thought.

The coffee was done. He poured himself a cup, with two sugars and a heaping spoonful of the disgusting artificial-hazelnut creamer. He gave Tasha hers black, not because that was how she took it normally, but because he knew she preferred putting up with just the bad coffee, instead of making it worse by adding the other crap.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome," he said. He couldn't meet her eyes.

* * *

_Zashchishchayte glaza!_ (Защищайте глаза!): Cover your eyes!


	12. Chapter 12

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twelve_

"Where are we?" said Steve. His voice was hoarse and his throat hurt like hell. Actually, pretty much everything hurt like hell, with special mention going to his left leg and his eyes. He couldn't see anything but grayish, turbulent light.

"Pittsfield, Massachusetts." It was Natasha's voice.

"How many did we lose?"

"Four patients, six medical staff, and two agents dead. About twenty wounded. And some damage to the building and equipment," she said.

"Bucky and Hawkeye?"

"They're both okay. Of the survivors, you're in the worst shape. Barnes is in surgery; they're doing a repair on the femoral nerve. He should eventually get back full function, but it's going to take a while."

"How long?"

"Well…Dr. Welborn said in a normal patient the nerve would regenerate at about a millimeter a day. He'll heal faster than normal, but not that much faster. Say about two or three months, not counting the time it'll take him to get back in condition."

"What about the rest? The burns, and his arm?"

"The arm's good. The second-degree burns are already about half-healed. The third-degree burns around the shoulder socket…it's hard to say. They thought at first they'd have to do skin grafts, but there are some signs of regeneration around the edges. They're going to wait a while and see what his body can do on its own."

"Good." He closed his eyes. Not being able to see was less disturbing with his eyes closed. "What do we know about the attack?"

She didn't answer him at first. Then she said, "Not much." She picked up his hand then, and held it between both of hers. He flinched a little; it was unlike her.

"Try to get some rest now," she said soothingly. Her thumb was tracing little designs on his palm. It was distracting. "Are you sure I can't get you something in the way of pain medication?"

"Don't bother," said Steve.

"Okay," she said. "Rest then." Her restless fiddling with his palm was irritating, verging on painful. He gently tried to pull his hand away from hers but she squeezed it lightly and kept on.

He was just about to say something when he registered that she was tracing letters. URE...NOT...SECURE...NOT..._  
_

He tucked his other hand under hers and traced _ROGER. _She squeezed his hand again, then lightly kissed the back of it and let go of him. "I'll be right here if you need anything," she said."Thanks," he said.

He tried to unclench his jaw, unclench his hands, relax and breathe through the pain. He tried to take comfort in the fact that he was no longer coughing his lungs out. He tried not to panic, tried to keep his voice light and steady. "Natasha?"

"Yes?"

"What did they say about my eyes?"

She inhaled sharply. "You don't remember? Dr. Welborn was in here about an hour ago. She said not to worry, your eyes will be fine. The damage isn't permanent. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you weren't tracking."

He sighed with relief. It made him cough, but he stopped blessedly soon. "Thanks."

Rest…wasn't really an option. He was in too much pain, but not in bad enough shape to pass out. Instead he tried to occupy himself with mission planning.

He was going to be a horrible liability for some time to come—blind, crippled and debilitated—and he was drawing fire towards a hospital full of civilians. Task one: get the hell out of here.

The Soldier sounded like a much better risk; not yet fully mobile, but probably able to be out of bed, maybe not needing too much more in the way of medical intervention. Task two: get the prisoner to a secure location.

Something else was bothering him. He tried to focus. The team. Stark and Banner were well out of the situation and should be fine. Thor was out of the picture. Natasha had sounded like herself and had, at least, the use of her wits, her voice and both hands, and was in good enough shape to be left in charge of him. Hawkeye….

There. That was it. That nagging feeling of something not quite right, not as expected. If their communications were compromised….Task three: find a way to talk to his team without betraying them all.

"Natasha?"

"I'm here."

He smiled a little, remembering sitting by her in her hotel room.

"Can you get me some water?"

"Sure."

He heard the sound of ice rattling in a plastic mug and then she slid an arm behind him, helped him sit up, guided his hands to the cup. He shivered slightly at the blessed coolness in his mouth.

"That enough?"

He nodded. She took the cup, eased him back down. He groped for her hand, caught it. "Thanks, Natasha. I appreciate it." On her palm, unseen, he trace T… N O T … O K.

"I know," she said softly. She brushed his hair back from his forehead and kissed his cheek and breathed, "Working on it," into his ear.

After what seemed like an eternity, his mind racing but unable to get traction on any concrete plan, Steve heard the rattle of a gurney coming down the hall. It stopped and there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," said Natasha, and there was the sound of a door opening.

"Hey Cap," said Hawkeye's voice. "Got your roomie back for you. He's still under, but the surgery went well. He should be waking up in another hour or so."

"Am I allowed to be out of bed?" Steve rasped.

"Um…" said Hawkeye, and another voice, a man's, replied, "He can sit up in a chair as long as someone's with him."

"Want to get up?" Natasha's voice asked. "Clint could maybe wheel you outside for a couple minutes. It's a nice afternoon, not too cold."

"Sure, if you don't mind," said Steve.

"Okay," said Natasha. "Go easy when you sit up; you might be light-headed at first."

Steve took the hint and swayed slightly as he sat on the edge of the bed. Clint and Natasha got on either side of him and solicitously helped him into a wheelchair; Natasha wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and said "I'll stay with Barnes," and Clint wheeled him out of the room.

They rolled down a short hallway and through an exterior door. The chill air outside made him cough a little; the sunlight stung his blistered face. Hawkeye bent over him and adjusted his blanket.

"Safe to talk out here if we're quiet," murmured the archer. "There's at least one bug in the room, and it wasn't there when we first moved in. Someone here is working with the enemy."

"Who the hell is the enemy?" said Steve.

"Good question," said Hawkeye, "but Fury thinks someone on the Council is involved. Whoever it is, it's pretty clear they want both you and Barnes dead. Tasha's guess is that if the two of you put your heads together, you know something damaging to this person. So we need you both alive, and preferably together."

"You need to get us out of here before there's another attack," said Steve. "No more dead civilians."

"Working on it," said Clint. "Hopefully by tonight."

"Good." He spent a few minutes breathing the clean, cold air and trying to think of a way to phrase this without insulting his teammate. Time was short, and he decided he didn't have the finesse to do anything but shoot straight.

"Hawkeye. When you—when I thought we were going to have to take you down, I studied your files. Clips of you in combat, reports on your personality, everything I could get on short notice."

"Yeah?" The archer sounded guarded, but not hostile.

"You've…changed. I don't know if it's related to Loki, or to whatever's going on between you and Natasha, or to this business with the Winter Soldier, but you…your actions don't fit your profile. I'm concerned about you."

"Concerned how?" Now there was a hint of a growl in his voice.

"Concerned that you're…that something's not right. That you're off-balance, not in your usual form. Not in terms of combat—you took the Soldier out perfectly. More in terms of…well, initiative. The way you're waiting for orders. It's not like you."

"Look, if you're saying you don't trust me—"

"That's not at all what I'm saying. I'm saying you're not acting like yourself, and I'm worried for you. Tell me I'm wrong."

Hawkeye was silent for a moment. Steve really missed being able to see his face, his posture.

"No," the archer said at last. "I think you're on to something. I…yeah. I was on the road for a while, and at one point I was taking orders from a civilian. They weren't bad orders, but still…yeah."

"Is this something you can work on with Natasha, or are you and she still on the outs?"

"We're good. The business with the Soldier—it's an issue, yeah, but we can work around it. But first we need to get out of this trap we're in, get some decent intel, and start acting instead of reacting."

"Communications is the worst problem. I assume SHIELD's network's been breached?"

"Seems likely."

"Stark might be able to get around that, but we have no way of getting word to him."

Steve heard the archer suck in a quick, harsh breath.

"Hawkeye?"

"Maybe we do," he said slowly. "Look, I'm gonna take you back inside, and then I'm going to try something. If it works, I'll get word to you or Tasha. If it doesn't, I'm still going to see about boosting a vehicle and getting us out of here tonight. Either way, you should hear from me by midnight."

"All right. Good luck."

"Thanks."

"And Hawkeye…"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're on our side."

The archer snorted. "Yeah. Me too."

Steve felt the slight tug as the brakes were unlocked on his wheelchair, and then they were turning around to head back into the building. The door opened ahead of them; Hawkeye stopped pushing for a moment, and said, "Oh, hey, Doc. We were just on our way back in."

"Captain Rogers," said a familiar voice, "it's Catherine Welborn; I'm the doctor who was looking after you at SHIELD medical."

"Of course," said Steve. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't know you'd ended up here with us."

"I evacuated with you, to try to keep you and Sergeant Barnes stable on the ride here," she said. "Can I walk with you back to your room? I have some ideas about surgery on your foot."

"Sure," said Steve. "Hawkeye, if you have someplace to go, I'm sure the doctor won't mind pushing me."

"I'd be happy to," said the doctor.

"I'll come with you anyway," Clint said. "I need to touch base with Tasha." He adjusted the blanket around Cap's shoulders and traced lightly on his shoulder blade, SPY.

_Well, I'll be damned,_ thought Steve. _But I guess it takes one to know one._


	13. Chapter 13

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Thirteen_

_[author's note: just found out the file I used to upload the previous chapter was borked; it should be fixed now, and some things should make more sense!]_

Clint followed Rogers and the doctor back to the room.

"Nat," Clint said with a nod. Tasha looked up at him and he flashed the subtle handsign that meant _target_, aimed at the doctor's back. Tasha's eyebrow twitched just the least bit in acknowledgement.

"I'm gonna go get something to eat," Clint said. "Need anything?"

"No, I'm good," Tasha said. "See you later tonight."

And he headed out to pick up his gear and make his contact.

Outside, still in his EMT uniform, carrying the go-bag that contained his weapons, he attracted no more than a passing glance from any of the staff, patients, or visitors. He stopped at the cafe to buy a coffee and some biscotti and took them with him to one of the outdoor tables, setting his bag on the seat beside him.

First, he checked the phone Stark had given him. The display was still locked, showing the same message he'd received that morning:

_This phone requires an upgrade _

_in order to provide the quality _

_service we pride ourselves on._

_Please visit your local StarkPhone_

_retailer for more information._

He put the phone away.

"Okay, you smug bastards," he muttered to himself, "hack this." He opened his bag just a hand's width, finding his quiver by touch, counting the arrows over with his fingertips until he found the one that felt subtly different. He rested his fingers on the fletching.

"Huginn," he said softly, and waited.

He'd taken only a couple of sips of his coffee before he heard the raven's call. He smiled, zipped his bag shut, and went for a walk.

About three blocks from the hospital was a park. Clint sat on the ground with his back to a thicket of horse chestnut. He heard the sound of wings descending behind him, but didn't turn to look.

"Thanks for coming, buddy," he said. "We need help. Steven Rogers is wounded and temporarily blind. We have a prisoner who's also wounded, who used to be a friend of Rogers', but has had his mind tampered with. Someone's trying to kill them both, and they have eyes and ears on us. Will you take a message to Tony Stark, and bring an answer back to me?"

There was a quiet rasp of beak from behind him.

"And will you let Thor know what's going on? I know he can't get here, but he'd want to know."

Another rasping noise.

"Thanks," said Clint. He pulled a small notebook and a pen from his pocket, scribbled a page, rolled it up and left it on the ground as he stood. He left the biscotti too.

"I'd have bought you a coffee, but it's frankly not much good," he said. "I'll be back in an hour." He walked away without looking back.

He thought about what Rogers had said, with a deepening sense of unease. Now that he put his mind to it, he thought he could trace the change in himself. Not to his time under Loki's control—that was mostly a blank, and afterward, the last thing he'd been inclined to do was to submit tamely to someone's orders. He'd had no problem with "initiative," as Rogers so delicately put it, until his interrogation by Natasha. He'd come out of that feeling lost, abandoned; without purpose or direction. And Natasha had disappeared. And when he'd found her again, despite her reassurances, her focus had been first on the Winter Soldier, second on Cap, and a distant, distant third for him. Her partner.

Now that he'd begun second-guessing himself, he couldn't stop. Why had he fallen in so readily with Terry, even to the point of obeying him in a hostage situation? Why was he taking orders from Rogers, who couldn't even walk across the room and whose covert ops experience was brief, crude, and seventy years out of date? And why was he so inclined to be soft on the Soldier, who, he had reason to know, was devious, ruthless, and dangerous even in his current state?

_God, Nat, you really fucked me up._

He needed to level out, get his feet back under him. SHIELD had been compromised; Cap had been compromised by his history with the Soldier; probably Nat had been compromised the same way; and he himself, in his own way, was compromised too. He was reduced to calling on Stark, of all people, for help, which he'd done once already, and if Stark couldn't help, what next, the Hulk? Better to cut his losses, let Fury and Hill try to rescue the ragged ends of their agency from whatever plot this was, let the Soldier escape or die and hope he didn't take Cap and Nat out on his way.

Shit. He missed Coulson. He would have known what to do, how to track down the threat and neutralize it, and his vengeance would have been swift, vicious and complete. He'd believed in SHIELD in a way Clint never had; he'd given himself to SHIELD wholeheartedly, body and soul. Coulson would have taken this very, very personally.

Clint had come full circle on the walking trail now, back to the place where he'd spoken with the raven. The note he'd left on the ground was gone; there were a few crumbs in the dirt. He sat on the ground, set his bag between his feet, and bowed his head.

_I don't need a mission,_ he thought wearily. _Just give me a target._

As if in answer to his wish, he heard footsteps on the path. He looked up; Doctor Welborn was walking briskly toward him. He got to his feet.

_Gaze more direct than before,_ he noted automatically. _She's sweating. Lost that chronically pissed-off look; now she looks scared. Right hand in pocket: is she armed? Few witnesses, nobody facing this way._

"Everything okay, Doc?" he asked.

"Captain Rogers has taken a turn for the worse," she said breathlessly. "Agent Romanov sent me to get you."

Clint picked up his bag and gestured to her. "After you."

She hesitated for a split second and then he was sure. She did have a weapon, and it was intended for him.

She turned and began walking back toward the hospital.

He followed her for a few paces, then stopped and bent as if to tie his boot, and she was on him.

_Combat trained, but not enough,_ he thought. _What made her think she could take a field agent? _

It was over in seconds; the autoinjector she'd been holding was on the ground, Clint had both her wrists in one hand and his other hand over her mouth, and he'd dragged her behind the bushes with hardly a sound.

"If you scream I'll choke you out," he whispered to her. She nodded.

"Who sent you?" he asked.

She looked away, lips firmly shut.

"Okay," he said. He zip-tied her wrists and ankles, and began searching her.

His initial quick patdown yielded a wallet, keys, ID and cellphone. Nothing in her shoes. He turned on the cell, overrode the lock, and started scrolling through recent incoming calls.

Image file. Three days ago. A dark-skinned kid in a power chair. Skinny. Head lolling, not properly centered on his headrest. Looked maybe fourteen. The guy standing next to him wore a ski mask and held a gun to the kid's head.

Clint turned the screen toward the doctor. "Your kid?"

She closed her eyes. Tears leaked out under the lids.

"You know he's probably dead already."

She nodded.

"Then why help them?"

She didn't open her eyes. "Probably's not the same as certainly," she said.

"You're a physician," he said. "They've killed four of your patients and eight of your colleagues. So far."

"I know," she said. She opened her eyes and looked straight at him. "The autoinjector's loaded with botulinum," she said. "If I die trying to follow their orders, they might let him go."

"They're not going to leave a live witness," he said gently.

"He can't communicate," she said. "No speech, no sign, nothing. He can't tell anyone anything."

"Doc—"

"They gave me until 5 p.m. to kill Barnes and Rogers," she said. "I couldn't get past the two of you to do it. This was my last chance. If I don't report back, they'll send a strike team, and they'll blow up the whole hospital if they have to."

"We'll be gone well before five," said Clint. "Come with us."

She hesitated, then shook her head firmly. "No. If they think I'm helping you they'll kill him."

"Doc. Catherine. You know they're not going to let him live. Or you either."

"I can't," she said, beginning to shake.

"I know," he said, and he put his hand on her throat and held pressure on the carotid arteries until her eyes fluttered and she went limp.

_Fuck this,_ he thought. He collected the autoinjector, made sure it was securely capped, and tucked it into his bag. He was weighing the advisability of leaving the unconscious doctor concealed while he went back to the hospital for a wheelchair when he heard wingbeats above him. He didn't look up when they stopped, just caught the little roll of paper as it fell from above.

It was weighted down with something, so he unrolled it carefully; there was a tiny plastic bag taped to the note, containing a chip and a SIM card.

_Okay, Edgar Allan Poe, try these on your phone. I have a panel truck en route to you, should be there by 3:45 pm; it's marked Fix IT Wizards and will pull up to the entrance nearest the cafeteria. Banner and I have been researching prosthetics; fascinating stuff. We have medics and equipment on standby; no more civilian hospitals. Call me when you're out from under surveillance. _

"Huginn," said Clint, "Will you do me one more favor?"

The bird gave his quiet beak-scrape noise.

Clint turned Dr. Welborn's phone face-up. "Ask Heimdall to find this kid, if he's still alive, and tell me where he is. If anyone asks, it's a matter of Steven Rogers' honor."

The bird gave a crooning call and took off.

"Sit tight, Doc," said Clint. "I'll be right back with our ride."


	14. Chapter 14

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Fourteen_

Steve heard the door open and close.

"Would you gentlemen care to get out of the room for a while?" asked Natasha. "Dr. Welborn wants to discuss surgery and rehab scheduling. We could wheel you down to the cafeteria, get an outside table."

"Sure," said Steve. The Soldier didn't say anything, but presumably he nodded or shrugged, because Steve heard the sound of the restraints being unbuckled.

"I'll need your parole," said Natasha. "No escape attempt today."

"No escape attempt before dark," the Soldier said with a hint of a smile in his voice.

"That'll do," said Natasha. "I wouldn't want to cramp your style. But the leg brace stays out of reach."

"All right. You don't have to push me, by the way. I can manage the chair with one arm and one leg."

"Good," she said. "Here, Steve, chair's beside your bed."

"Thanks," he said, found it by touch and levered himself into it, then unlocked the brakes.

"Left down the corridor, first left, second right," said Natasha to the Soldier, then came back to push Steve's chair.

"Hawkeye waiting for us?" he asked her.

"He'll meet us in a while."

Steve heard the door open, saw the wash of lighter gray as he emerged into the sunlight, and felt the movement of air on his face. He savored the feeling. Natasha turned the chair to the left, stopped, locked the brakes. "There's a table in front of you, Steve," she said. "Want coffee?"

"Sure," he said.

"Nobody within about fifty feet of you except the Soldier," she said more softly. "I'll be within sight but not earshot. Back in five."

Steve sat silent for a moment, listening. There were voices, but none close by. He could hear a light breeze ruffling leaves somewhere ahead of him. Finally he spoke quietly.

"You remembered. Didn't you."

There was a silence that stretched for several breaths, and at first Steve thought he wasn't going to get an answer. But finally:

"Yes. A little."

"So you believe us now."

"I…yes. I believe that I was born James Buchanan Barnes." More silence. "But I have been reborn several times since then."

"I know. I do know what that's like."

A small snort. "The part you understand is the least of it. You're still the same man you were. I may know that better than anyone alive."

"And I'm the only one alive who can say the same of you."

"Really? Bucky Barnes was a ruthless killer?"

"When he had to be. That's part of why I chose you. All of you. Because you could do what was necessary. And then stop."

Another small silence.

"I…always assumed you picked me because we were friends."

"Hell no. I was glad I could give you the chance to hit back at HYDRA, but if you hadn't come up to scratch, I'd never have made you one of the Commandos."

"Well, shit, Steve."

"The life of a C.O. is a hard one, Sergeant."

"Screw you, Rogers."

Steve laughed. "And you," he continued, "sixty-plus years as an assassin, and you render aid to your target at risk of your own life? Is that what they taught you in assassin school?"

A small chuckle. "No. That would not be standard operating procedure. And be fair: subjectively, it's only been about ten years. I spent a lot of it asleep."

"Brother, I know what that's like. I slept through the Cold War." The silence was less strained now, more meditative. "You saved Natasha's sanity, I think."

"I…did what I could. I couldn't do what was necessary." The Soldier's voice was calm, level, but with a harsh undertone.

There were footsteps approaching. Boots. A light brisk tread, but not fast enough to be threatening. When the footsteps stopped, Hawkeye's voice said "Cap," but no more.

"How was your break?" asked Steve.

"Productive," said Hawkeye. "Here comes Nat with coffee. Don't get your hopes up; it's pretty bad."

Natasha's footsteps were just audible, no doubt out of courtesy. Steve knew from experience that either of them could have approached without a sound, if they'd chosen to.

"Here you go," said Natasha, brushing the coffee cup against the edge of his hand as she set it down. He picked it up and sipped. Not up to Tony Stark's standards, or even the Helicarrier's, but better than the Army's.

"Dr. Welborn?" asked Steve.

"Change of plans. She got tied up," said Hawkeye, a little too casually, and Steve's heart leaped. He heard the Soldier take a deep breath and hold it for a second.

There was the sound of a motor nearby, a diesel, bigger than a car, smaller than a tractor-trailer. It pulled to a stop and idled, and Steve heard the rattle and clang of a rear gate being rolled open.

"Might want to set the coffee down. And hang on," said Hawkeye, and Steve's chair was abruptly jerked backward, turned around, and rolled rapidly forward and up a ramp. He heard the noise of the other wheelchair behind him; the ramp was roughly shoved back into place, the gate rolled down and slammed shut, and the engine snarled into gear.

"Beautiful," said Steve. "I assume we won't be seeing the doctor today after all?"

"Actually I'm seeing her right now on the floor of the truck," said the Soldier helpfully. "Apparently 'tied up' wasn't a metaphor."

"Yeah, we'll get to that," said Hawkeye. "Cap, we have your shield and your sidearm."

"Keep the gun," said Steve, "but I'd feel better with the shield. I can't throw it blind, but I can still block things with it if I can hear them coming."

"Can do," said Hawkeye. "Also got some more functional clothing for you. And we got a brace that should let you bear some weight on that leg without messing up your foot any worse."

"Fine," said Cap. "I assume you made contact with someone?"

"I did," said Hawkeye.

"So much for 'no escape attempt before dark'," said the Soldier.

"I didn't make any promises," said Natasha.

"So why are we bringing the doctor?" asked Steve. "Couldn't get one of our own?"

"Well, 'our own' is a problematic concept right now," said Hawkeye, "but mainly, we…I…have unfinished business with the doc. She should be awake soon, by the way, if she's not already."

Natasha said, "Steve, there's a seat just to your right; if you want to get out of the wheelchair I can fold it up and get it out of the way."

"Thanks," he said, and transferred over. There was a seat belt; he buckled it. Their ride had been smooth after the initial burst of acceleration, but he figured that was subject to change. Presumably the Soldier was doing the same; he heard the click of the buckle and the rattle of the second wheelchair being folded as well.

"I'd rather not cuff you to the truck in case we wreck it," Natasha said. "Will you keep to your parole?"

"You know, you could let me go," said the Soldier.

"And let you finish your mission? No, thank you."

"Maybe I'd just call for extraction," said the Soldier.

"Depending on who took the call, you might be better off with us," Natasha said. "No. Not now."

"Might be your last chance," said the Soldier. "I won't turn, Natachenka, and you'll end up having to kill me."

"Clint, if you make a Star Wars joke I will end you," she said. And to the Soldier, "Those aren't the only options. Prisoner exchange, maybe, once things stabilize. Parole?"

The Soldier sighed. "Until nightfall," he said.

"Clint," said Natasha, and the two of them moved forward past Steve and the Soldier, presumably to confer silently.

After a while Steve could hear the sound of the doctor's breathing over the noise of the truck; not quite snoring, but a little harsh, with a slight gurgle.

"So presumably," said the Soldier, "You've got help from someone outside SHIELD. I'm guessing Stark?"

"That's one of the possibilities," said Steve. "There are others."

"I doubt the alien god has panel trucks," said the Soldier.

"If he wanted them, I've no doubt he'd manage," said Steve.

"What's he like?"

"Which one?"

"Stark Junior."

Steve smiled. "To some extent, like Stark Senior. Full of himself. Cocky as hell. Women all over him. And a surprising amount of the time, he's as good as he thinks he is. But you know that. Starts out being tortured in a cave and ends up as infantry, artillery and air support rolled into one."

"I won't underestimate him, when the time comes."

Steve nodded grimly. "You think you won't."

"What are you planning to do with me?"

"I was kind of hoping to get to the point where you could make your own plans. But obviously, if your list still starts with 'kill Rogers and Romanov,' that's not likely."

"You have a better idea?"

"How about 'find out who's trying to kill both Rogers and Barnes' and go from there?"

"I can give you a starting point for that," said Hawkeye from the front of the compartment.

"What have you got?" asked Steve.

"Fury turned on his bosses," said the archer.

"Didn't think he had enough info on them to do any good," said Steve.

"You'd be surprised," said Natasha.

"He was willing to put up with a foiled attempt to nuke Manhattan," said Hawkeye, "but when they started messing with SHIELD, that was _personal_."

"Nuke Manhattan?" the Soldier said blankly.

"_Bozhe moi_. You slept through the alien invasion?" said Natasha.

"Natachenka, I said before, don't play with me."

"_Archangel Mikhail._ I'm not playing. You know about Thor; you don't know what his brother did?"

"I'm afraid to ask, now."

"You've heard of the Tesseract," said Steve.

"HYDRA's power source, yes."

"Presumably you knew Howard Stark found it before he died."

"Yes. We kept expecting a new crop of weapons to show up, but…nothing."

"More on that later," Steve said. "You knew about Thor, yes?"

"I was briefed on him. Superpowered alien, temporarily not superpowered, fought some kind of flamethrowing robot in the middle of nowhere in the Southwestern U.S., then vanished."

"Yes. Well, Thor has a brother named Loki. Loki got thrown into limbo or something. He struck a deal with some aliens named the Chitauri, came to Earth, got the Tesseract, and opened a portal for the Chitauri to invade. Earth was supposed to be their payment for helping him."

"And the part about nuking Manhattan?"

"That," said Natasha, "was the World Security Council trying to stop the invasion. Fury took exception to the idea. Iron Man took care of the nuke. You do know about the Avengers, yes?"

"I was briefed. Strike team that's basically designed to take on an army."

Clint laughed. "Well, we did end up taking on an army, but _designed_ is a strong word. What the hell did your handlers tell you? The Avengers were a scrapped project that got hauled out of the round file in a last-ditch attempt to recover the Tesseract and stop the invasion."

The Soldier took a while to respond. "That…was not the story I got."

"Well, our story is verifiable, but I don't think I want to give you the kind of access that would allow you to verify it," said Natasha.

Silence fell again.

"Galina," the Soldier said at last. "Let me talk to her."

"Not face-to-face," said Natasha.

"Video link will do," he said.

"You asked her where to find me," Natasha said. "She would never have told you if she'd believed I was your target."

"She didn't," the Soldier said. "I had a lead on Rogers. You were a bonus. And the archer was a surprise."

"As I so often am," said Hawkeye drily.

There was a quiet moan from the floor.

"Hey, Doc," said Hawkeye. "Welcome back."


	15. Chapter 15

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Fifteen_

Once they were out on the highway, Clint texted Stark.

_On the road. Where are you sending us?_

Stark replied,

_Safe house. Belongs to retired employee. _

_Will rendezvous w you ~ 11 p.m._

_What did you look up on Google Maps?_

"Eavesdropper," Clint muttered. He smiled to himself at how adept Huginn had proven to be, perched at Clint's elbow and eyeing his phone intently, tapping the screen with his beak to show Clint where to center the map and zoom. He typed,

_Location of a hostage. _

_Planning extraction ASAP._

Clint put the phone away and banged on the front of the compartment, and the truck pulled over. The driver, who turned out to be Agent Jasper Sitwell of SHIELD, came around to confer with him. Clint helped Dr. Welborn up and out of the truck, so they could talk privately.

"Your son is alive," he told her. "I know where they're holding him. Three men and a woman; the woman looks more like another hostage than an accomplice. Slim, maybe mid-twenties, glasses, dark hair in a braid down to her waist."

The doctor looked stunned. "That's Nina. She's one of Jerry's caregivers. They must have grabbed her along with him. Are they hurt?"

Clint shook his head. "As far as we could tell, they're not injured. Upset, frightened, but no blood, no bandages. She's able to move around freely. Presumably she's been looking after him."

"Where are they?"

"Not far."

"You have to get to them before they decide to kill him. It's nearly five."

"That was the plan," said Clint. He gave her a slight squeeze on the shoulder. "Courage, Doc," he said, and helped her back into the truck.

"Okay," he said to Sitwell. "I'll take shotgun. We're detouring to Rutland. Drop me at these coordinates, then head for the Rutland police station and wait. I'll call you when I'm done; you can let the doc go and tell her to walk to the station and we'll bring her kid to her."

"Can do," said Sitwell.

"How are things at HQ?" asked Clint as they got back into the truck.

"Chaotic," said Sitwell as he pulled back onto the road. "Fury's been pulling people aside for face-to-face briefings, after which said people take off for parts unknown. There's a betting pool on whether he had a shadow organization in place ahead of time."

"I'm in for twenty on 'yes'," said Clint.

"Noted," said Sitwell.

"Where's Hill?"

"Nobody knows. Well, Fury probably knows, but he's not saying."

"What's the word on the Avengers?"

"Everyone's supposed to stay the hell away from you. The official word is that we don't know whether or not you've all gone rogue. But Fury put me on a security detail inside Stark Tower, and he said 'If Stark asks you to do anything, do it.' So here I am."

"Glad to have you," said Clint. "The hostage is a quadriplegic kid; the doc's son. I think the guys holding him are SHIELD agents, or they were until recently. They were using him as leverage to try to get her to kill Cap and the Soldier. I plan to neutralize the agents, spring the kid and the caregiver, and deliver the whole package to the cops."

"Okay. Whose side are we on, by the way?"

Clint thought about that one for a while. "Coulson's," he said finally.

"I can get behind that," said Sitwell. His normally mild and cheerful face was cold, expressionless. For just a second, it reminded Clint of Coulson himself.

They were silent for the rest of the drive. Eventually Sitwell parked the truck on a quiet residential street, just around the corner from the house that held Jerry Welborn and his caregiver.

"Okay," said Sitwell. "See you at the safe house." He put his earpiece in.

Clint settled his own earpiece in his ear. "I'll contact you when I'm done," he said, and got out.

Sitwell put the truck in gear and drove off.

Clint strolled down the street and slipped between two houses, neither of which had a vehicle parked in front. There was a particularly fine oak tree in the back yard of one of them.

He used a grappling hook and line to ascend the tree to the first main fork, then climbed higher until he could look down on his target.

The house was a split-level on a half-acre lot, with a small garden that offered nothing in the way of concealment. There were three entrances: front door, back door, garage facing the front. There was no one outside. There was a van with a wheelchair lift parked on the street in front. It was a sullen, cloudy afternoon; lights showed in two downstairs windows, both with closed blinds. There were no trees close enough to give him a route down onto the roof, but the wall itself looked climbable.

He moved around to the other side of the tree's trunk. There was a power transformer at the intersection, six houses down. Clint took out his bow.

The explosion was loud, but no louder than it would have been if the transformer itself had blown. Clint counted fifteen seconds before a man emerged from the house. He was holding a pistol, down beside his leg where it wasn't immediately obvious. He glanced up and down the street; all the houses west of the transformer were dark; some of the ones to the east still showed lights. He turned back and called through the door, "Just the transformer," then went back in the house.

Clint descended from the tree. In two more minutes he was scanning the frame of one of the second-story windows with the handy app Stark had installed on his phone. No alarm system. He put the phone away and started working on the window.

Once inside, he heard people moving around downstairs. He ghosted across the room (bedroom, currently vacant but apparently in use) and paused at the head of the stairs to listen.

Two male voices in conversation near the foot of the stairs. A soft, rhythmic whimpering and a woman's voice, closer to him on the other side.

He slipped down the stairs. As he came to the bottom he could see the flickering light of candles coming from the left of the foyer.

"Shh, honey. It's all right. I know you don't like the dark. We're fine now. We have candles," said the woman's voice.

The two men's voices, accompanied by footsteps, were getting closer on the right. "I still don't like it," said one.

"What's that got to do with it?" said the other irritably. "We have orders."

Clint waited, motionless. Where was the third guy?

"He okay?" said a soft voice from the left, where the candlelight was, and the woman answered, "He'll be fine."

There. All accounted for. Clint retreated up to the landing and readied his bow as the two crossed the foyer into the candlelit room.

"It's five o'clock," one of them said.

"I think we should wait," said the softer voice that had spoken to the woman earlier.

"Orders said five. Something's gone south," said the first voice. Clint heard a gasp from the woman.

"This is bullshit," said the second voice. "I didn't sign up for this."

"Move out of the way," said the first, and Clint was all the way down the stairs without a sound.

Two men with their backs to him, one with a pistol aimed at the kid in the wheelchair. One man facing him, between the gunman and the hostage.

Clint took the gunman with an arrow to the neck. He used the bow to sweep the second man's feet from under him, then kicked him in the head just after he landed. He had an arrow on the string as he turned back; he leveled it at the third man, who immediately put up his hands.

"Get away from the kid," said Clint quietly and the guy complied. He was youngish, maybe mid-twenties, with dark curly hair a little too long for regs, and he looked calm, if not exactly relaxed.

"Told them those orders were bullshit," the guy said.

"Face down on the floor," Clint said, "hands behind your back." Curly complied. Clint zipcuffed his wrists and ankles, then did the same with the unconscious man, whom he rolled into recovery position. He checked the man he'd shot; dead.

"Picked the wrong fucking side," Curly said, voice muffled by the floor.

"Easy to do sometimes," said Clint. He looked up at the young woman, who was leaning protectively over the kid in the chair, blocking his view of the body on the floor. "Dr. Welborn sent me," he said. "Is your name Nina?"

She nodded. She was pale and her eyes were huge, but she seemed to be focusing on him okay.

"I'm going to take you and Jerry to the police station, and his mom will meet you there," he said. "I'll send the cops to pick these guys up separately."

"Let me get his stuff," said Nina. Clint nodded.

"How did they get the chair in here?" he asked her. He was going through pockets as they spoke, the conscious man's first, then the unconscious one, then the dead one, collecting car keys, phones, pocket knives. None of them were carrying wallets or ID.

"They have a temporary plywood ramp," she replied, gathering up meds, clothes, and supplies into a tote bag. "I think they put it in the garage."

"Can you move it by yourself?" he asked. She nodded. "Okay, go get it. I'll meet you at the door."

Nina paused to put a hand on Jerry's cheek. "I'll be right back, honey," she said. "You're going to be fine." The kid made a small sound that might have been an acknowledgement, or might not.

"Hey," said the curly-haired guy. "I didn't want to do this. I wasn't going to let them kill the kid. You saw."

Clint didn't say anything.

Nina came back in. "Okay, we're ready," she said. She switched on Jerry's chair, maneuvered it out the door and down the ramp that covered the front step, and out to the van. Clint opened the door and triggered the lift, and in three more minutes they were on the road and he was calling 911 to send cops and an ambulance to the house.

"I'm going to drop you and Jerry off at the police station," he told Nina, "and I need to keep the vehicle. Both of you be OK with the cops?"

"We'll manage," she said. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he said. Then he switched on his comm and told Sitwell to drop off the doc.


	16. Chapter 16

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Sixteen_

Steve looked at the vague smeary halo that was the ceiling fixture. He sighed and closed his eyes. "I've been trying to imagine what it's like to be you," he said. "When you wake up, whoever was in charge on your last mission is long gone. And not just once, but over and over again."

"That's true," said the Soldier. "I don't remember the first time, of course. The second time is also pretty vague. The third time was at the height of the Cold War, the Brezhnev era. Then the next time, they told me the Berlin Wall had fallen. The time after that, the Soviet Union was gone. And this last time, they told me Natasha had defected. That was the one I had trouble believing."

"I can understand that."

"The only way I could make sense of it…you know she was reprogrammed. Several times."

"Yes."

"Just before they put me under the last time, I heard whispers that one of the psychologists had installed his own private trigger in her; the rumor was that he intended to make her his…pet. I wasn't able to track down the truth of it before I ran out of time and they froze me. So when I woke up and they told me she'd turned, the only thing I could think was that…someone had found that trigger. And used it."

"You thought Hawkeye did that to her."

"I did. So when they sent me after you, and I found out she was with you…." He trailed off for a moment. "I thought she'd be…a robot. A thing."

"Oh," said Steve.

"And I thought…at least I could give her the dignity of a grave."

"But after Hawkeye took you down, you saw her. And spoke to her," said Steve.

"Yes," said the Soldier. "And…it was really her. If anything, she was more herself. Stronger. She used to have…this brittleness about her. Not now."

"She'd grown," said Steve.

"Yes. And I should have known, because Galina had seen her, and Galina could never miss something like that, so I should have known I was wrong…"

"And you were wrong about Hawkeye," Steve put in.

A long pause. "Yes," the Soldier said finally.

"So," said Steve, "you've had to revise your assumptions."

The Soldier snorted. "You could say that."

"So why did they send you after me?" Steve said after a while.

"No, no. Back up. The first question is, _who_ sent me after you?"

"Good point." Steve thought about it for a minute. "Well, number one on the list of people I've annoyed: HYDRA."

"Surely there are easier ways for HYDRA to take you out than by infiltrating the FSB."

"But the FSB has no grudge against me at all. Well, they might now, since we captured you. But in any case—what did they tell you about why they wanted me dead?"

"Nothing. They never do. And I don't ask."

"But you disobeyed your orders."

The Soldier sighed. "I was…curious. Suspicious. I wanted to question you. About Natasha. If I'd known Barton was there, I'd have killed you and questioned him."

"Okay, look," said Steve. "We—that is, Natasha and I—only found out who you were about a week ago. Though it's possible that SHIELD knew before then. When were you sent after me?"

The Soldier said nothing.

"Before, or after we found out?"

"Before."

"So our learning your identity didn't trigger whatever it was; and at the time you were sent out, I didn't know you were alive."

"You think you would have recognized me?"

"Not at fifty yards in the dark."

The Soldier chuckled. "True enough."

"And you wouldn't have recognized me either, I guess."

"Well, I knew what you looked like; you were my target. But if you mean 'recognized me as your best friend from your former life', no. I did—when I was reviewing your file, it made me uneasy. _Déjà vu_ I guess. I had no conscious memory of you at all, except as a historical figure, but still—"

He broke off suddenly at the sound of very heavy footsteps.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," said Steve.

The door opened and Natasha's voice said, "Stark's here."

"Good," said Steve. "I'll be right there." He grabbed the crutches from beside his bed and cautiously stood up. "Want to come too?" he asked. "He can be a little overwhelming; if you'd rather rest, I'll make your excuses."

"I'm curious," said the Soldier. "I'll come. Natachenka, if you'd be so kind?"

"_Khorosho_," she said. "Steve, tell Tony we'll be right there."

"Okay," said Steve, and cautiously maneuvered his way to the door. He could see little more than dark and light, but he'd learned to navigate between the bedroom he shared with the Soldier and the common room next to it. He bumped the doorframe with one crutch to be sure it was where he thought it was, and swung into the common room.

"Hey, Captain!" said the familiar voice. Stark was wearing the suit—Steve could hear the little pings as the temperature equalized—but with the faceplate up; his voice was unaltered. "Love the hair. Very edgy. The blisters, not so much. And I'm hoping the foot thing isn't permanent."

"It is until I can get it cut apart and reassembled," Steve said.

"Yeowch."

"Yeah. Won't be fun. But it doesn't hurt much now."

"Can you see at all?"

"Not much. But it's gradually getting better." Steve worked his way around to an armchair, sat down, and propped his crutches against the chair.

"Tony," said Natasha, "This is my former teacher, the Winter Soldier, who is also Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes of the Howling Commandos. Unfortunately we are not currently on the same side; hence I'm about to leg-shackle him, and I'd appreciate it if you'd keep a reasonable distance."

"So no handshake, noted, sorry about that," said Stark. "It's…well, 'a pleasure' might be a bit of a stretch, but I think I can say 'an honor' with a straight face."

The Soldier chuckled. "You were right, Rogers. I see the resemblance."

"Oh, God. Is this going to be another person who keeps bringing up my dad? Because don't. I was looking forward to a nice long technical discussion about prosthetics. I have a shiny new prototype down in my workshop right now. Well, not literally shiny, I made it to match your skin tone—"

"Why," said the Soldier, "would you build a new arm for the person who tried to kill your colleague, and succeeded in crippling him? I didn't do the eyes, mind you. But I'll take credit for the leg."

"Bribery," said Stark promptly. "Or, well, I'd do it anyway, if the arm had just, you know, ended up on my doorstep, because hello, challenge, can't stand to see something sitting around that needs to be improved on. Interesting architecture, I'm one hundred percent sure Ivan Vanko had a hand in it, pun intended, it's not all his work but the self-destruct was definitely his—"

"Tony," said Natasha, but Stark rode right over her:

"—didn't even spot it at first, but luckily Katniss's fire arrow fragged it so it misfired, otherwise I'd be missing an arm myself, well, technically, two arms, and a workbench—"

"_Tony_," said Natasha again, and either her tone, a significant look, or possibly the sight of a weapon got through to him because he shut up.

As far as Steve could tell, the Soldier was holding his breath. Either stunned, or trying not to laugh.

"Thank you," said Natasha. "We can get to that later. Right now we need to get Steve to a secure location for surgery, and the Soldier to a secure location for recovery and PT. Not necessarily the same location, though it would be preferable. What have you got for us?"

"Couple of options," Stark said. "I can set you up in the Tower; pretty confident we can get in without being spotted, but getting out will be more of a problem. Natasha, you know our security, and I've improved it since your first visit, but we can't withstand a siege, and it's way too populated an area to fight in."

"I'll veto that right now," Steve said. "Too many civilian casualties already."

"Okay, can't blame you on that score," Stark said. "Second option is the Helicarrier."

"Bad idea," said Natasha.

"Agreed. Third is a place Bruce knows, you can guess why, off the grid and crude but probably adequate for both purposes. Sparsely populated as per usual, in a place where you can see things coming."

"I vote for that one," said Steve.

"Ah, Western democracy," said the Soldier. "I vote for the Helicarrier. It's a tie. Let's have a runoff."

"We could arm wrestle," said Steve with a grin.

"Which arm?" the Soldier shot back.

"One man, one vote," said Stark. "Cap's the man, he gets the vote."

"Can't blame a man for trying," said the Soldier.

"You're not getting anywhere near a classified SHIELD installation until we've had a _very_ long talk," said Natasha.

"_Bozhe moi_," said the Soldier quietly. "If it's all the same to you, Natachenka, I'd just as soon you shot me."

"Not happening," she said, but her voice was gentler than usual. "There was a time when you trusted me."

"There was a time when we were on the same side," he said.

There was a short silence.

"We might still be," she said. "There are more sides than there used to be."

"You got that right," said Stark. "I'm starting to sympathize with Fury, and believe me that is _not_ a comfortable feeling. By the way, Red Menace, totally sympathizing with you on the Scary Natasha front, we need to have drinks sometime and compare notes about that, I'm getting flashbacks here just seeing those restraints."

"Does he ever shut up?" the Soldier asked. "I thought the Chinese Water Torture was bad."

"You have no idea," said Natasha. "Let's get Barton in here and make plans. And Tony, try to rein it in a little."

"Please," said Steve. "Not that I haven't missed you, Tony, but you're like Brylcreem. A little dab'll do ya."

"Oh my God," said Stark, "I'm in 1940s Radio Jingle Hell."

Steve grinned. "You have no idea of the arsenal at my command," he said. "Play nice."


	17. Chapter 17

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Seventeen_

"Clint? Report." Tasha's voice in his earpiece was brisk and matter-of-fact.

"All clear. No traffic either direction for the past half-hour. Only two houses within a mile of here and they're both empty."

"Okay. Come back in. Time to make plans."

Everyone was in the common room when he came in; the Soldier in leg shackles, which were looped behind one leg of his armchair; Cap in the other armchair; Stark in the Iron Man suit, visor open, leaning on the wall in a casual slouch that should have been impossible in armor; Tasha standing poised between the Soldier and the others.

"How's it going, Sagittarius?"

"It's going. Nice work with the jackets, by the way. And thanks for the help in Vegas."

"Don't mention it. Phone upgrade working?"

"Yeah. But can you make it secure for a 2-way conversation with an ordinary phone?"

"Voice, no. Text, yes; I can have it send an encryption algorithm as a virus to the other phone. Won't keep the signal from being intercepted, but it'll take a while to break."

Clint handed the phone over. "Make it so," he said.

Stark gave him a look. "Really? Picard? I had you figured for a Kirk man."

"Man of mystery," said Clint.

Stark unlocked his gauntlets, slipped them off, and typed for a few seconds. Then he handed back the phone. "There you go, _Mon Capitain_."

"You as Q, on the other hand? Doesn't surprise me a bit," said Clint, and he began texting.

_J: You okay? —R.H._

The reply came back in less than a minute.

_Hic jacet Arthurus._

Clint smiled and sent back:

_Rex quondam, rexque futurus._

"Not much of a password," said Stark.

"It is if you know enough to make it up on the fly," Clint said. "I don't care if you eavesdrop, just be quiet." His phone chimed again.

_Hey, Robin Hood. We're all fine. No _

_trouble yet. No word from Reidsville. _

_But Tricia has intel for you._

"Who's this you're texting?" Stark asked.

"Old friend with a lot of interesting acquaintances," Clint said. "Her wife is ex-Navy Intelligence and has even more interesting acquaintances. Shush." _Let's hear it,_ he typed.

_Hackers from CalTech poking around_

_NSA directories uncovered Captain _

_America's obit. Written 2 weeks ago._

_No dateline, no attribution, no location. _

_Says he was assassinated by the _

_Winter Soldier. Hackers in custody _

_but one managed to send message first._

"Huh," said Clint, and typed:

_Cap alive and more or less well. _

_Winter Soldier an interesting choice._

_Basically, all agencies suspect now_

_esp. SHIELD. Keep yr heads down._

And Jeannine replied,

_Same to you._

"Well, so," said Clint, "it appears the NSA has a crystal ball. They knew two weeks ago that the Winter Soldier was going to assassinate Captain America." In his peripheral vision, Clint saw the Soldier go completely still.

"Interesting," said Natasha. "So either the two governments are cooperating on a top-secret project to have Russia's icon wipe out America's, with associated fallout, or someone is manipulating both sides."

"What the _hell_ is going on?" said Cap. "I just can't see how this could be in anyone's interest. The only thing I've done since I got woken up is help capture Loki and help stop the Chitauri invasion. Nobody in their right mind could want to kill me for that."

"Loki," suggested Stark.

"I did specify 'in their right mind'," said Cap.

"Military contractor?" suggested Stark. "It's possible the Chitauri invasion will damp down some wars—you know, 'we're all in the same boat being attacked by armored space whales'? Could mean lost profits."

"Unless people react by going 'fuck this, we need to get ready for the next wave of space invaders' and buying even more weapons," Clint suggested.

"Does seem likely," said Stark. "And besides, even if it was someone like, I metaphorically spit on the ground before mentioning his name, Justin Hammer—the invasion's over. Killing the people who stopped it won't change anything. And why Cap specifically?"

"And why the Winter Soldier?" Natasha asked. "Apparently the NSA was ready to name him as the assassin. He was being set up. Why?"

"We're looking at this from the wrong end," said Steve. "Forget looking for a cause. Look at the intended effect. If it hadn't been for our accidentally finding out who he was, the Winter Soldier would have had an easy shot at me. I'd have been totally unprepared. I'd be dead. It's possible he'd have taken out one or more other Avengers. The rest of the team would have gone after him, and I'd give better than even odds he'd have been captured or killed. There'd be a huge storm of publicity."

"And SHIELD would look totally incompetent," said Clint.

"And the FSB would look out of control," said the Soldier.

"And both of them would probably get new leadership," said Natasha. "And if Fury's right, someone on the Council would be controlling that process."

"And the U.S. and Russian intelligence machines could become one single machine," said Stark, "with even less conscience than they have now. I think I just gave myself goose bumps."

"Natachenka," said the Soldier, "I need to talk to Galina. Tonight."

"Tony," said Natasha, "can you set up a secure video network for us? One end here and the other in Queens?"

"Sure thing," said Stark. "Pick a StarkPhone store. I'll send Sitwell to meet your contact there with a secure tablet."

"Clint, will you text Galina and ask her to choose a place?"

"Sure," said Clint. He typed a message and handed the phone to Tasha when it chimed. She read the reply and passed it on to Stark.

"Let me touch base with Jarvis," Stark said, and flipped his visor shut.

"You know," said Tasha to the Soldier, "this would be much simpler if you were an ally instead of a prisoner."

"It's never going to be simple, Natachenka," the Soldier said quietly. "I can't turn traitor because my chain of command's been tampered with."

"If they take you back, they'll tear you apart."

"Wouldn't be the first time," he said grimly.

"There doesn't have to be another time," she countered. "Stay with me."

"Don't you mean _come with us_?"

"No. That's too much to ask. Of you, and of my team. Just me. If I have to, I'll stand between you and SHIELD."

"How about between me and Barton?" said the Soldier, holding Clint's gaze.

"If I have to," she said again.

The Soldier sat still for a while. Then he shook his head. "No."

Stark straightened up from his slouch against the wall and flipped his visor open. "Okay. Video conference in half an hour, courtesy of StarkPhone and your friendly neighborhood moonlighting SHIELD agent."

"Let's go have a talk," Natasha said to the Soldier, "before we talk to Galina." She unfastened his shackles and helped him to his feet. He kept one hand on her shoulder as he limped back to the bedroom. Natasha shut the door behind them.

"So," said Stark, "you and Natasha and the ex. How's that going?"

"I'm curious," said Clint. "Do you ever _not_ say the most annoying thing possible?"

"Rarely," said Stark. "Why poke something with a spaghetti noodle if you've got a perfectly good stick?"

"Just wondering," said Clint. "I'm going back out to check the perimeter. I'll be on headset."

He spent the next half-hour up a tree, scanning for lights or movement. Nothing moved during that time except a deer, an owl, and the International Space Station, its clear golden spark visible through the trees. It was relaxing out here. The absence of Stark was like an entirely new realm of peace and quiet.

"Clint," said Natasha on the headset, "what's your twenty? We need to talk."

"In a tree at the moment," said Clint. "Give me a sec." He saw the door open and Natasha step out; he let himself down quietly and walked to meet her.

"Let's stay out here," she said, and he turned to walk with her along the driveway.

"There's a downed tree over that way that's good to sit on," he offered.

"Okay," she said, and followed him. He waited till she'd taken a seat, then sat next to her, but with some space in between.

"So what's the plan?" he asked.

"That's what I need to talk to you about. The Soldier's talking to Galina. I think he'll take her word for it that the Avengers are what we are; that we stopped the Chitauri invasion and, most importantly, that we then stood down and didn't make any threats or demands. I think he'll accept that either his orders weren't actually coming from the FSB, or that the FSB was compromised at the time he got his mission. But I don't expect him to join us."

"What are you going to do with him?"

She looked away for a moment, took a deep breath.

"I'm going to go back to Russia with him. To try to undo this mess from that end, while the rest of the team works with Fury on this end."

"Shit," Clint breathed. "You—shit, Tasha."

"I know. You don't have to say it."

"If you're captured, either of you—"

"I know. I was in Moscow last year, you know."

"That was a lot lower-stakes than this. And your cover hadn't been blown to the entire planet. And you didn't have a crippled, one-armed partner."

"He won't be one-armed or crippled. Stark's got the replacement arm already built, and he says he can build a powered brace, based on his armor, that will compensate for the paralyzed quads."

"You're going to hand over Stark tech to the Russians?"

She shook her head. "No. Stark thought of that. The arm he's got ready is only slightly better than the old one. Except for a few bells and whistles with no combat application. Of course, he has plans for something much more advanced—but not unless or until the Soldier comes over to SHIELD. Or possibly the Avengers."

Clint gritted his teeth and looked out into the night. Tasha moved closer to him, put a hand on his shoulder.

_"Sokolinovo," _she said, "this is not about me going back to him."

"If it were, do you think I'd try to stop you?"

"No. I know you wouldn't." She leaned her head on his shoulder and he put an arm around her. She tucked her head into his chest and inhaled deeply. On the exhale, she shivered slightly. He pulled her closer, wrapped the other arm around her and stroked her hair.

"I've got you, Nat," he whispered.

"I know," she said. Her arms were locked around his waist; his hand cradled the back of her head. He'd held her like this the first time, shielding her with his body from the weapons trained on her by his extraction team.

"If they take you, I'm coming after you," he said.

She sighed. "I wish I thought I could talk you out of it."

"You can't. So don't get caught."

"I won't."

"Good."

They sat in silence for a while.

"About Vanya," she said.

He tensed a little but didn't let go of her, and she didn't pull away, so that, he thought cautiously, was a good sign.

"I don't need you slaying my dragons for me," she said.

"You got me away from Loki," he said.

"That was different."

"Was it?"

"I owed you."

"Oh. So if you'd already paid that debt, you'd have just shot me?"

"Don't be an idiot."

"Chernenko needed to go down. You couldn't do it. I could. The fact that it gave me the leverage I needed to pull you out of Russia made it too good to pass up."

"I—all right. I can see that. And it worked, damn your gift for unorthodox tactics. But don't make a habit of it."

"Tasha. Once, in all the years I've known you."

"Twice, Barton. I wasn't going to call you out over Novikov, but I know you did it."

He half-laughed. "Well. Guess I owe you a cut of the proceeds then. I bought a safe house in Josefstadt; leftover money's cached in the house. I'll give you the address."

"I'm serious. No more."

He pulled back and looked at her. "All right," he said. "No more. I know you can fight your own battles. And I'll remind you again, you did the rescuing last time. Not just Loki, but after. And not just me, but Stark."

"It needed doing."

"It did."

"And this needs doing too. And I have to go with him."

"I get it, Tasha." He glanced at her with an almost, almost straight face. "Triage. And only one of us is red."

"Oh, _God_, Barton," she said, and her helpless laugh sounded almost like a sob, and he was holding her again, and they stayed there like that till her breathing evened out and she relaxed.

"We're good, Nat," he said, and kissed her forehead. "Good hunting."

* * *

Note: Jeannine's impromptu password is the inscription on King Arthur's tomb as reported by Malory: "Here lies Arthur, once king, and king to be." Or as T. H. White rendered it, "the once and future king." Jeannine knows Clint's read Malory; she gave it to him for Christmas when he was eleven.

_Sokolinovo _(Соколиного): Hawkeye


	18. Chapter 18

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Eighteen_

Steve had barely gotten settled into his room in their new hideout when Dr. Banner came calling.

"Steve," said Dr. Banner. "This is Dr. Rajiv Sekhar. He's an orthopedic surgeon, but he's also been a combat medic. He's got some ideas about pain control that may work for you."

"Good to meet you, Doctor," said Steve, extending his hand. He still couldn't make out any details, but he could see the doctor as a vague silhouette, tall and thin.

"Pleased to meet you as well, Captain Rogers," said the doctor. His handshake was firm and warm. "Dr. Banner has explained to me the difficulties presented by your metabolism with regard to anesthesia. I have a couple of ideas I'd like to try, some conventional and some less so. Although we will be doing a certain amount of trial and error, I will not deceive you in an attempt to invoke the placebo effect, and I will not use any technique that has not been proven safe."

"Understood," said Steve. "And thank you."

"So. Have you ever used TENS? Also sometimes called e-stim or electrical stimulation? That is, delivery of electrical current to modulate pain sensation or cause muscle contractions?"

"No."

"All right. Our best option, I think, is going to be a combination of burst-mode TENS and short-term nerve blocks. Here's how it will work. We will deliver an electrical current to your leg, just above the injured area, for about ten to fifteen minutes, at the highest intensity you can tolerate. This will be very uncomfortable, Captain Rogers. Your muscles will contract strongly and you will feel a considerable amount of pain. But the effect we hope to achieve is twofold: first, the pain nerves will 'wear out' temporarily, the way you can lose the ability to smell a particular odor after long exposure. Second, your brain will release endogenous opioids; those are the body's own anesthetics. You won't be numb, but the intensity of pain you feel in the leg will be cut approximately in half, for two to four hours. This should allow us to begin dissection of the malunited parts of your leg and foot, realigning the damaged structures to their correct positions. As the effects of the electrical stimulation begin to wear off, we'll apply a nerve block to give us time to finish the procedure and close the incision. Then we'll allow that section to heal for a day or two before we begin the next section. Any questions?"

"So you think this will work in spite of the serum," Steve said.

"Yes. The technique is based on the normal response of your nervous system to stimulation. The serum shouldn't affect that response. The nerve block, because of your enhanced metabolism, won't last as long as it normally would, but it only needs to last a few minutes."

"All right," said Steve. "When can we start?"

"We'll start tomorrow morning."

Steve thanked the doctors and shook hands; they left, already deep in a polysyllabic discussion he had no hope of following.

The Winter Soldier stirred restlessly in the bed next to his. "Are they gone?" he said plaintively. His voice was muffled.

Steve chuckled. "Coast is clear."

"Good." There was a rustle of sheets and the creak of the restraints as the Soldier shifted position as much as he could. "Sounds like you have a fun day ahead."

"Frankly, I'd rather face the guy with the scalpel than have a one-on-one with Stark for the whole morning."

"True. Maybe if I invoke the Geneva Convention they'll give me earplugs."

The next morning, bright and early, Natasha helped the Soldier out of bed, gave him his leg brace, and walked him out for his consultation with Stark.

"Good luck," Steve called after them.

"You too," said the Soldier.

A few minutes later, Drs. Banner and Sekhar came to fetch him. They guided him to another room, more brightly lit, with a hospital bed in it. The head of the bed was raised to about a 45-degree angle; Banner helped him into it and then faded into the background.

Dr. Sekhar let him handle the equipment, since he couldn't see well enough to get a clear picture of it. The TENS unit was a deceptively simple box with several thin electric leads attached to small adhesive pads. Sekhar stuck the pads around his leg, just below the knee, and activated the machine. It emitted a pleasant tingle at first. As Sekhar turned up the voltage the sensation became stronger, then unpleasant. The muscles in Steve's leg began to twitch, then to spasm, and then locked into a rock-hard contraction that felt like the worst cramp he'd ever endured. He clenched his teeth and stayed still. Dr. Sekhar turned the voltage up a bit more and Steve groaned.

"Are you all right?" Sekhar asked.

"I'm good," said Steve a little breathlessly.

"I think we'll leave it there to begin with," Sekhar said. He moved over to the sink and Steve could hear the water running as Sekhar began scrubbing his hands. The pale blur that Steve knew was Dr. Banner moved past and Steve could hear the rustle of a surgical gown and the snap of latex gloves and the soft clink of instruments on towels. The light in the room brightened and he could smell the hot metal of the fixtures and the sharp tang of Betadine. He forced himself to unclench his hands and teeth. His jaw and forearms were already beginning to ache. His leg felt like a bar of iron, if a bar of iron could hurt.

"All right, Captain Rogers," Sekhar said at last. "Go ahead and lie back and let me isolate and scrub the first surgical site. I'm going to strap your leg down to keep you from moving involuntarily."

Steve felt the firm pressure of the straps, but faintly, as if his leg were wrapped in a thick blanket. Abruptly the electrical current stopped, and he gasped at the sudden relief. His rigid muscles released all at once, but kept up a sort of flickering tremor, like a horse shivering its skin to shake off flies. He vaguely felt the electrodes being peeled off, then the cool wetness of the sponge and the warm touch of surgical drapes.

"All right, Captain Rogers, we're ready to begin," said Dr. Sekhar. "Please tell me when you feel you're reaching the end of your pain tolerance, and we'll get ready to close."

Sekhar's incision was swift and decisive but not hurried; it hurt like hell. Steve's whole body screamed for him to protect himself, escape, fight, but he held still, holding his thigh down with both hands and breathing as slowly and deeply as he could. He closed his nearly-useless eyes. He was sweating already, and as he felt the scalpel work its way between the layers of muscle and connective tissue he began to pant through his clenched teeth. He focused on being still and not making noise. _Steady. Hold on. Hold on_, he told himself. _You can do this._

The scalpel grated against bone and he flinched in spite of his best efforts. "Sorry," he said breathlessly. His world narrowed to the interface between flesh and steel; he was barely aware of the sound of suction, the smell of cauterization. His breathing was more like gasping now, and his face was wet, whether from tears or sweat he couldn't tell.

_Hold on hold on it's not forever hold on…_

He felt the sharp bite of the needle and the pull and drag of sutures through muscle, a new kind of pain.

"Captain Rogers," said Dr. Sekhar, "I'm going to have to re-break several small bones in your foot that have knit improperly. May I proceed?"

"Do it," Steve said, and his voice was an inhuman snarl.

"There will be four," Sekhar said, "and then I'm going to proceed with the nerve block and close the incision. On the count of three. One. Two. Three." And then four sharp cracks of blinding agony.

Steve screamed, but he didn't move, couldn't move. For an instant he was back in Erskine's machine, the sarcophagus from which he'd been reborn, and the pain was a dream was a nightmare was a timeless white light that penetrated his whole being.

And then the pain faded, faded, and stopped, and gradually he became aware that he was sobbing.

"Very well done, Captain Rogers," said Dr. Sekhar's calm voice. "Please remain still while I close."

"Thank you," said Steve hoarsely.

They wheeled him back to his room and helped him onto his bed and he turned his face to the wall and tried not to start dry-heaving until they were out of earshot. He shivered, couldn't stop shivering, and though the asthma was long gone with his old body he couldn't quite manage to fill his lungs.

They would do it again in two days. And he would have to stay still, and try to stay quiet, even though this time he knew what was coming and exactly how bad it would be.

_God. Oh God._

"It gets better," said a quiet voice behind him. "After the first couple of times. You kind of learn to let it wash over you."

"Christ," said Steve shakily. "Eight days."

"Seven," said Bucky. "They didn't start right away. The first day was just watching them work on another guy."

"You remember," said Steve.

"Yeah. The screaming kind of brings it back."

"Sorry."

A quiet chuckle. "Better you than me," said Bucky.

"Hell yes," said Steve. "How was Stark?"

"Not as bad as HYDRA. Not quite. Mainly he was connecting things to my right arm and having me move it, and connecting things to my left shoulder and having me pretend to move my missing arm, and babbling the whole time, talking to that computer of his, mostly acting like I wasn't there. Speaking of letting things wash over you."

"It'll be worth it."

"If you say so." Bucky sounded cynical, world-weary.

There was a long silence.

"Steve," said Bucky softly, "This…I…this is getting hard, being tied down like this and remembering…you want to let me up from here?"

Steve sat up, groped for his crutches, and swung across to sit on Bucky's bed. He found the buckles difficult; his hands were shaking.

Bucky sat up and bent over, stretching and massaging his legs after the restraints. There was a pause.

"I remember you getting me out, too," Bucky said.

"I'm glad," said Steve.

"You're going to do it again," said Bucky, and a cold sliver of metal touched Steve's throat. He froze. He could feel the warmth of Bucky's body behind him, feel the slightest stirring of breath at the back of his neck. "Stand up."

Steve complied, slowly, weight on his good leg. He was careful not to let his breathing change before he snapped the back of his head into Bucky's nose, slammed a fist into his wounded thigh, grabbed his wrist and twisted hard. There was a tinkle of metal hitting the floor. A little trickle of blood threaded down over Steve's collarbone. He ignored it.

"Don't think so," Steve said, bearing down hard on the wristlock. He raised his voice and called "Natasha?"

She was in the doorway within three seconds. Judging by her stance, she was holding a gun on Bucky.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Sudden attack of stupid," said Steve. "Won't happen again. Would you take him out of here for a while, please?"

"Sure," she said. "You hurt, Steve?"

"Not to amount to anything," he said. "There's a blade somewhere on the floor over here."

"I see it."

"I note you're not asking whether I'm hurt," said the Soldier, his voice slightly strained.

"If you're not, I can take care of that," said Natasha. _"Durak."_

* * *

_Durak _(Дурак): idiot, fool

Note on burst-mode TENS: this is not the more familiar version that is used for long-duration pain relief, e.g. low back pain. This version is used immediately before painful procedures like debriding wounds.


	19. Chapter 19

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Nineteen_

Clint was having a cup of coffee with Banner in the kitchen when Nat came in, dragging the Winter Soldier behind her like a bag of garbage. She dumped him on the floor, where he lay unmoving, and said to Banner, "Bruce, strap this guy down and sedate the hell out of him before I kill him. And not in the same room as Rogers."

"Okay..." said Banner.

"Bearing in mind that he's nearly as strong as Cap and fully as sneaky as Tony," she said.

"Got it," said Banner.

"Want some help?" Clint asked cautiously, and Banner nodded to him. They bent and picked the Soldier up, Banner taking his shoulders and Clint his legs.

"Down this way," said Banner, tilting his head to the right-hand door off the hallway. "We can use the operating table, it's got restraints."

They carried the Soldier into the improvised O.R., which smelled faintly of Betadine and even more faintly of blood, and strapped him down. Banner rummaged in a cabinet and came out with a cannula, a syringe and a vial.

"How much would you say he weighs?" he asked Clint.

Clint pondered. "Probably about 78 kilos," he said.

"That sounds reasonable," Banner said. He checked the Soldier's pulse and pulled back his eyelids to check his pupils. He seemed satisfied with what he found. He scrubbed the back of the Soldier's hand and inserted a cannula, then injected the drug into it. "I'll stay with him," he said.

"I'll go see what's got Nat in scorched-earth mode," said Clint.

He tracked Tasha by the sound of her voice—not loud, but icy cold, clear and precise. Apparently she was engaged in reaming Stark a new one.

"Did you miss the part where this is the most skilled assassin in Russia? The part where he single-handedly went after Captain America, and damn near killed him, along with me and Barton? The part where he's been killing people since before you were _born?_"

"I got that, yeah, but I had the impression—"

"Fuck your impression," she said, and as Clint came through the doorway she was in Stark's face holding up a thin, shiny edge of metal, perilously close to his left eye.

"He palmed this off your fucking workbench and had it at Steve's throat about five minutes ago," she said.

"Fuck," said Stark quietly. He very intelligently didn't move.

Clint opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again.

"Look," Tasha said. "I appreciate what you're doing. I appreciate that you're reverse engineering a piece of badly damaged tech, adapting it to a damaged substrate, and improving it as you go, with a marginally cooperative patient. But you need to appreciate that this is not a drill and that the Soldier is perfectly capable of killing every one of us if we don't fucking take him seriously."

"I got that," Stark said quietly, still not moving, holding the Widow's gaze with his own, voice steady, hands out to the side and carefully spread.

"Any questions?" Tasha said.

"Is Steve okay?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," said Stark.

"Don't fuck up again," Tasha said. "We can't afford it."

"Got it."

She lowered the blade, which Clint could see now was a mere shard of sheet steel, ragged-edged and blackened but still glittering-sharp, and she set it on the workbench. Then she turned to him.

"Anything to add, Barton?" she snapped, and Clint saw that she was bone-white with rage, a look he hadn't seen on her face since, well, since he'd gotten the drop on her in Moscow.

"No," he said, though his inner smartass was going _holy shit you are infinitely hot when you are this terrifying. _But fortunately the part of him that wanted to live to see another day was in charge, and he managed to keep his mouth shut and his face a complete deadpan.

"What can I do for you?" Clint asked quietly.

"Nothing," she said. "Fuck."

"Come on," he said. "Banner's got the Soldier. Let's go walk a little."

"I should—yeah, okay, let's go," she said. "Fuck, I wish I had the rest of my weapons."

He didn't answer and didn't touch her, but stepped aside as she passed him and fell in behind her. He glanced back over his shoulder at Stark, who silently mouthed _yikes_. Clint gave him a tiny nod in response and followed Tasha out.

Outside she was silent, walking fast, fury still evident in the line of her back, in the tension of her hands and the carriage of her head. He took up a position at her left elbow, eyes sweeping the landscape. The area around the building was treeless, almost featureless, a failed subdivision of the kind his uncle had called a "PVC farm". They had taken up residence in the one house that had been built, a demonstration model dating back to just after the mortgage crisis. Bruce knew someone who knew the developer, and had quietly arranged for the doomed property to change hands several years ago. Since then he had occasionally used it as a hideout. Its distance from any inhabited houses and the wide swath of cleared land on all sides made it an ideal lair for someone who might turn into a rage monster and didn't appreciate surveillance. Therefore it also worked well for their present purposes. And the fact that he'd converted one bedroom into a lab and another into an exam room/operating theater for his research was a definite bonus.

Tasha's walk slowed, eventually, as they wandered the paved streets of the imaginary neighborhood. Gradually her posture wound down, from rigid to tense to poised.

"You okay?" Clint asked softly.

"Yeah. I will be," she said. "This is...I wasn't ready for this. I'm still a step behind, and I can't afford to be."

"What can I do?" he asked again, and this time she seemed to give the question some consideration.

"I think—I think we're going to have to go ahead with Stark's prosthesis," she said. "I don't—we can't keep him prisoner, and we can't let him go here. If I have to, I'll drop him out of a plane over the Caspian Sea and let him find his own way out. But not without an arm."

"Are you still thinking about going back to Russia with him?"

"I don't know. I can't trust him, at least not yet, not as things stand. I don't know whether I can—whether we can reach an agreement or not."

"You think he'd stand by an agreement if he made one?"

"I think I can at least predict accurately whether he'll keep it, when it comes to the point of negotiation."

"Okay. So, what, we keep him under for the rest of today and tonight so we can all get some rest, and then tomorrow we keep him tied down while Stark tests out the arm?"

"I think he'll have to at least have his upper body and both arms free. It's going to take both of us to guard him."

"Better get some rest then. Have you had anything to eat recently?"

She glanced at him, amused. "Isn't that my line?"

"Well, you kind of had the exhausted broody end-of-the-rope niche already filled, so I figured I'd better move over a notch."

"Fuck you, Barton."

"As soon as this is over, Nat. Anywhere, anytime, anyhow."

She laughed, a little raggedly. "In the Arctic. With the aurora. And wolves. And no cyborg assassins, suspect agents, terrorists or renegade gods for hundreds of miles."

"I'll get Jeannine to put us on her calendar."

"Speaking of which, have you checked in with her?"

"Yep. This morning. No new developments. Hooray for one crisis at a time! Well, two. Maybe three."

"I think the FSB problem and the NSA/SHIELD problem are the same problem. The Soldier counts as another problem."

"The Soldier counts as at least two problems," Clint said. "Keeping him from killing one of us, and managing not to kill him—assuming that's how you still want it."

"Yes."

"And then there's the other problem: is there any way to cut him loose so he can be a damn human being instead of a weapon-in-a-fridge?"

"Would you, if you could?"

"Yeah. I would. I will."

"For my sake?"

"Partly. He's the only person in your past, besides Galina, that I don't want to kill with my bare hands on sight. And besides—"

"Besides?"

Clint scowled. "He's...I could see getting to where I could work with him. Like Thor. You can't help rooting for the guy. How many assassins do you know who have a sense of humor? Not to mention any curiosity?"

"I'm looking at one."

"I'm not an assassin. At least, not usually."

She smiled. "Not any more, maybe. Maybe I'm not either."

"We should start a twelve-step group. 'Hi, my name is Yakov and I'm an assassin.' 'Hi, Yakov.'"

Natasha shook her head sadly at him.

"By the way, is there a reason I haven't heard you say his name? Rogers calls him 'Bucky', but not consistently. I don't think I've heard you call him anything directly, and you usually refer to him as 'the Soldier'."

"Yes. That's deliberate. He's...caught between two identities. He knows he used to be Barnes, and I think he feels the pull of that, especially when he's with Steve. He knows he's not really what the KGB tried to make him, but on the other hand, it was his finger on the trigger; he owns all the things he did for them, and he should. 'Soldier' is a name both those men can answer to. I'm not going to push him towards either identity; he needs to find his own way to reconcile them. The last thing I want is either to force him to make a choice, or to send him ricocheting back and forth between two selves."

"Yeah. I can see how that would be…less than ideal."

"How about you? He's managed to get you to sympathize with him. Is that going to be a problem if we have to take him out?"

"No. If anything, it helps balance my primitive testosterone-driven urge to destroy a potential rival so I can have you all to myself."

She laughed. "Just keep telling yourself that, Barton."

"Oh, I will, believe me. It's all that keeps me going, the thought that someday you will be My Woman, barefoot in my kitchen, getting me a beer while I watch NFL highlights from my leather recliner."

"Barton, you are a piece of work."

He smiled crookedly. "Plucky comic relief," he said.


	20. Chapter 20

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty_

"Steve?"

Natasha's voice was soft, as if she were worried about waking him up.

"I'm awake," he said. He was still hoarse, but at least the nausea and shaking had stopped. Probably the adrenaline rush of the brief scuffle with Bucky had helped. The pain in his leg wasn't bad at all. The numbness from the nerve block had worn off almost as soon as the sutures were in place, but still the leg felt pretty good. Sekhar was obviously good at his job.

"How are you?" Natasha asked. He sat up and turned and he could actually see her, not just a silhouette but a shape with dimension and form. Her features were vague but he could see color and contrast: dark hair, pale face, dark blue shirt; he could tell that she was holding something in each hand—cups?—and he could follow the movement as she walked towards the bed. He leaned back against the headboard, legs out straight.

"I'm pretty good, actually," he said. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"Yes. I brought you some, and an update. Want to talk about what happened with the Soldier?"

Steve grimaced as he took the cup from her, aiming almost correctly on the first try. "He played me. And I completely fell for it. That's three times he's had the drop on me, and all three times he's refused to kill me."

"Why?" Natasha said. She angled her chair so he wouldn't have to crane his neck to see her.

"Well, he said the first time he wanted to question me. About you. The second time? I don't know. Maybe with me gassed and unconscious it was just too easy. This time he wanted me as a hostage so he could escape. Maybe he would have cut my throat anyway, once we were clear. I don't know."

"I think he underestimated you."

"Maybe. He does that a lot, did you notice? Whoever briefed him should be fired."

"That depends on whether they actually wanted him to succeed," she said.

"Oh." He thought about that for a moment. Was this mission just a roundabout way of getting rid of the Soldier? And had Bucky considered that possibility?

"At any rate," said Natasha, "I think you'll find he won't make the same mistake twice. He's not going to let Barton get a shot at him; he's not going hand-to-hand with you; and he's not going to play whatever card worked on you this last time."

"How badly messed up is he?"

"Physically? Not bad. You did some damage to the surgical site, but you didn't disrupt the nerve repair. He's probably going to have a hematoma. His nose is broken, but Bruce set it while he was unconscious."

"Unconscious?"

"I choked him out. It seemed like the simplest solution. Bruce has him sedated, restrained and under observation. Oh, and his wrist might have a low-grade sprain, but nothing worse than that."

"Think Bruce can handle him? I know the Other Guy can, but..."

"Yes. Bruce was able to handle Tony. He and Hawkeye took turns watching last night."

"Right. Um...how about other than physically?"

"Tell me what happened between you two."

Steve took a deep breath, pretended it was a mission report, and recounted the conversation and its outcome clearly, succinctly and without editorial comment.

Natasha simply nodded. "It sounds to me as if he really did recover some memory of being held captive, and possibly of your rescuing him. I think he looked at your physical and emotional state, and the fact that he was alone with you, and figured this was the best chance of escape he was ever going to get."

"Where'd he get the knife?"

"It was a scrap of sheet steel. He snagged it from Tony's lab while Tony was doing measurements and testing on him. Awkward, but perfectly adequate to cut your throat."

Steve sighed. "I wish I understood what's going on in his head."

"He probably does too," said Natasha. "I…Steve, I wish I could explain to you what it's like to be reprogrammed. There's so much uncertainty; you can't separate conditioning from reality, true memories from false…it's incredibly tempting to just latch on to whatever orders you've been given and shut everything else out. That he's not doing that is a testament to his strength."

"Or his stubbornness," said Steve. "He was always…" His eyes stung and his throat tightened. He fell silent and shook his head.

Natasha didn't say anything, just sipped her coffee and waited.

Steve pulled himself together. "So what's the plan now?"

"The plan now is that he stays under restraints and sedation for the next 24 hours or so, with at least one of us on guard at all times, so we can get some rest in shifts, and you can get maybe one more round of repairs on your leg. After that, we're going to go ahead with Stark's prosthesis—"

"You can't be serious."

"I am serious. I'm probably going to have to cut him loose, most likely somewhere in Eastern Europe, and I don't want him to die."

"Won't he just come right back after us?"

"I don't know. I hope not. I don't think he'll trust his handlers—he certainly shouldn't. If I were in his position, I'd go into hiding."

"I…." Steve put his head in his hands. "You're probably right. It's too dangerous trying to hold him in this situation. If we could count on SHIELD it would be different. But we don't have the resources."

"I'd hoped for better. But we can't do much while we're on the run ourselves. If we let him go, it gives us time to try to figure out what's going on with SHIELD, and put a stop to it. Maybe we'll get another chance with the Soldier, another time."

Steve looked down at the floor. "It's like watching him fall off that damned train all over again," he said quietly.

"If it helps," said Natasha, "he's not as helpless as he's trying to make himself seem. I've seen him take out six opponents when he was in worse shape than this, and unarmed." He couldn't make out her expression, but he could hear the reminiscent smile in her voice. "Well, he was unarmed until he got the first one's gun. And after he wiped the floor with them, he carried me half a mile to our evac point; both my ankles were broken."

Steve nodded. "Yeah. Even before he was…improved, he was incredibly tough. And he never, ever gives up. Even when he should."

"His resilience is part of the problem," Natasha said. "There's a core of him they couldn't get to, and we can't either." She stood up, and held out her hand. "Finished with your coffee?"

He drank the last (cold) swallow and handed her the cup. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Get some rest, if you can," she said as she left. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us."

He did rest, as much as he could; he ate, though he didn't remember afterward what he'd eaten; and the rest of the time he spent remembering. Bucky in Brooklyn when they were kids; Bucky at the Expo, a girl on each arm; Bucky in the HYDRA prison; Bucky up high on a rocky slope, picking off HYDRA troops with cool efficiency. Not as flashy as Hawkeye, but just as focused. And like Hawkeye, right back in the game when by rights he should have been shivering in a corner somewhere, trying to hide from his nightmares.

Dr. Sekhar came by at midday to check on his progress. He took another x-ray, examined the already-closed incision, and cautiously asked if Steve might be ready for another round that afternoon. Steve agreed. He must have done a pretty poor job hiding his reluctance, though, since Sekhar got a thoughtful look on his face and excused himself. When he came back an hour later, he sat by Steve's bed and seemed...embarrassed?

"Captain Rogers," he said hesitantly, "I understand you are a Catholic."

"I am," said Steve, wondering what the hell that had to do with anything.

"I myself am not a religious man," the doctor said, "but it is well known that the meditative traditions of many different faiths can have a powerful effect on the perception of pain and on a patient's tolerance for stress. I hope it is not out of place...well. Here. Perhaps you might find this of use." He took Steve's hand, turned it palm-up, and dropped something into it that rattled softly. Steve picked it up. A rosary.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm ashamed to say I hadn't thought of that. But I think you're right. It might help."

And that afternoon, when his leg locked into its agonizing spasm, and then the scalpel slid into his quivering flesh, instead of just lying there with his fists and jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut, he felt the smooth beads slip between his fingers and he whispered the words and heard the echo of his mother's voice, his neighbors' voices, the voices of the dead.

_Gloria patri et filio et spiritui sancto..._

Behind his closed eyes, the wax-scented darkness of a church. His legs too short to reach the floor; his mother gently setting a hand on his knee to stop him swinging his feet.

_Ave Maria gratia plena..._

The bombed-out chapel in Italy where he'd given a dying Fascist the best he could do towards the last rites.

_...ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae._

Decade after decade, round after round. The Joyful, the Sorrowful, the Glorious mysteries. The pain was still there, still screaming for him to do something, but he was remote from it; there was a door between him and panic, and the steady flow of words was like the gentle pressure of one finger, just enough to keep the door closed. He bent his will to the task, speaking slowly and clearly though almost silently, feeling every delicate link of chain, the cool heavy metal of the crucifix and the medallion, the warm light wood of the beads, and he looked up in surprise when he felt the sudden cessation of pain and realized that Dr. Sekhar was stitching him up.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Very well done, Captain Rogers," Dr. Sekhar said. "One more session, I think, and then there is only the healing process."

"Would you like this back?"

"No. Keep it, sir. I'm pleased you found it useful. It was left to me by a patient, a few years ago. I'm glad to find an appropriate home for it."

* * *

To my patients Pat and John, whose courage I remember every day of my life. _Requiescant in pace._


	21. Chapter 21

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty-one_

Clint exchanged nods with Sitwell as the agent came out of the house to relieve him on watch.

"All quiet?" Sitwell asked.

"Yep."

"Good. Today the big day?"

"Yeah." Clint rolled his shoulders and neck, trying to work out the lingering tension. "How's Stark?"

"Still flinching a little every time he sees the Widow. I don't blame him."

Clint smiled. "That the first time you've ever seen her pissed off?"

"Yeah. Brother, I don't envy you. Not at all."

"There are compensations."

"I don't doubt it. But I like a quiet life."

Clint snorted. "Yeah. That's why you joined SHIELD and then volunteered to work with Stark."

Sitwell grinned his choirboy grin. "The brochure was misleading."

Clint clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, at least we get dental."

Sitwell nodded. "And the fruit basket at Christmas is nice. Good luck."

"You too."

Clint took a bathroom break, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and flopped down on the living room floor with his arms outstretched and his legs up on the wall in a 'V'. He closed his eyes.

"Barton, are you stretching or sleeping?" asked Tasha.

"Both," he said without opening his eyes. "Also picking stocks, planning next week's menu, and achieving enlightenment any minute now. I am a master of multitasking."

"Well, quit. We need to talk."

Clint brought his feet together and rocked them back over his head into a plow position, then levered up into a handstand, then brought his feet down and stood up.

Tasha was not impressed.

"Stark says he'll be ready in half an hour," she said. "Banner started tapering the sedatives a couple hours ago; the Soldier should be waking up soon. We need everyone in place in thirty."

"Okay. Rogers going to be there?"

She didn't answer at first. "What do you think?" she said after a while.

He shrugged. "Pros and cons," he said. "If you and Rogers are both there, you keep the tension going between Barnes and the Soldier. If Rogers is there without you, the Soldier's more likely to try to pull something, and that could get messy; but on the other hand he might loosen up and let something slip. If it's just you, you can put more pressure on him, but Rogers may suspect you of torture or brainwashing."

"Do you think Sitwell can handle the perimeter by himself? Because we need Banner for medical monitoring, and Stark for the prosthesis. So if we need another person outside, that's you or me. Steve's vision is improving, but it's still not good enough for him to keep watch."

Clint thought about that. "I think as long as visibility's this good, Sitwell's okay," he said, "but if it starts raining later, and I think it might, we'll need two for better coverage."

"All right," she said. "Me, you, Rogers, Banner, and Stark inside; Sitwell outside, but you stay on headset with him."

"Can do," he said. "In the meantime, what do you need from me?"

"Just stay alert," she said. "Don't engage with him, just be ready in case he tries to jump one of us."

"Worried about Banner?"

"Not especially. When he's in doctor-mode he's pretty resistant to being tweaked. Tony had to really work hard at it to set him off, and it didn't last long."

"That's good to know."

"All right. Get back to your meditation or whatever. See you in a few."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am."

She flipped him a bird and left. Clint did a few more stretches and then just lay quietly with his eyes closed for a few minutes. Nat looked pretty solid; she'd apparently gotten some sleep while the Soldier was down. He hadn't seen Stark yet that morning, but if he could stand up to Nat and have nothing to show for it but a little twitchiness, he'd be fine. Nat's assessment of Banner was good enough for him. That left Sitwell (good rep, and Coulson had always liked him) and himself (pretty steady now, actually, starting to feel like himself again). If SHIELD or their evil twins would stay out of their hair long enough to get this thing with the arm done, they could grab one of Stark's jets and have the Soldier across the Atlantic before midnight. Which would be more than fine with him. Nat's flare of temper the day before had betrayed how much the assassin had gotten under her skin. He didn't know if it was old debts, or bad memories, or simply that she was still in love with the man (not that Nat would ever admit being in love). At any rate, there was obviously too much at stake for her, and that unsettled him. It would be a relief when both of them could put their full attention on the task of cleaning out SHIELD and getting the team repaired and re-focused.

He got up, drank some water, checked in with Sitwell, and headed down to the treatment room to confer with Stark and Banner.

Stark was tinkering with the arm. It was the first Clint had seen of it; it was the same color as the Soldier's skin, but smooth and featureless: no hair, wrinkles, veins or fingernails, which gave it a creepy mannequin-like vibe. Clint was about to make a comment to that effect, but a closer look at Stark decided him against it. For once Stark didn't have a flippant greeting for him; he was focused on his work, occasionally tossing a comment or question at Banner. Banner seemed equally preoccupied, his attention divided between his motionless patient and a bank of medical readouts. Clint glanced at the Soldier; other than the still-swollen broken nose, now strapped with a couple of strips of adhesive tape, he looked reasonably healthy.

Rogers hadn't put in an appearance yet. Clint took up a position in a corner that gave him clear sightlines to the door and to the chair set up for the Soldier, and waited.

When Cap came in, he was walking with a cane, wearing a protective boot on the injured leg, and he was obviously able to see well enough to navigate around obstacles.

"Hey Cap. Glad to see you up and around," Clint said.

"Glad to be that way," said Rogers. "Hopefully I'll be able to be some use before much longer." He looked over at Banner and Stark, standing with their heads together adjusting something on the arm. "How's it coming, gentlemen?"

"Almost ready," said Banner.

"For a given value of 'almost' and 'ready'," Stark grumbled. "If I had my workshop..."

"It doesn't have to be perfect, Tony," said Banner. "Just better than what he had before. And considering that what he had before is pretty much a melted blob of solder—"

"Yes, right, I know, primitive conditions, yadda yadda, I did have to work in a cave that one time, whatever," said Stark. "I just hate turning out substandard work, is all."

"Can we try it out so I can strangle him with it?" slurred the Soldier, his eyes still closed, but the familiar sardonic tilt to his eyebrows.

"In a minute, Red Dawn," said Stark. "Wait till you can sit up without falling over."

Dr. Banner moved over to the Soldier's side and began removing some devices—the IV, the blood pressure cuff—and adding others: an array of small electrodes on his scalp plus a couple on his chest and upper back.

"What now?" the Soldier asked. "Electroshock therapy?"

"Don't tempt me," said Nat, who had entered without even Clint noticing, much less the others.

"I'm just monitoring your response to feedback from the arm, so we can adjust it as necessary," Banner said. "Okay, Tony, ready for Part One."

"Ready here too," Stark said. "Can you sit up yet, Alexander Nevsky, or do you need a minute?"

"I can sit up," said the Soldier. "Give me five minutes and I'll take you apart without either arm."

"If I didn't have a project ongoing, I'd be glad to take that bet," said Stark. "But not today. Okay, let's rock and roll."

Nat and Banner helped the Soldier over to the chair and strapped him to it, waist and legs, leaving his upper body free.

"Okay, first order of business is to reconstruct the interface and then try to match the new motor control mechanisms to your existing systems," Stark said. "We'll keep the arm detached for this part. Those burns are nowhere near healed, and I don't want to do any more damage to the skin than I absolutely have to. With your permission?" He held up a palm-sized, complicated-looking disc, and asked the Soldier, "May I attach this to your socket?"

The Soldier nodded. "Go ahead."

Stark bent and carefully touched the disc to the metal stub on the Soldier's body, and it clicked, whirred, and attached itself smoothly. The Soldier raised an eyebrow but made no comment.

"Any pain with that?" Banner asked.

"No," said the Soldier.

Stark attached several delicate wires and cables to the disc. He brought the arm, which lay cradled in a frame on a rolling table, close enough to attach the other ends of the leads to it.

"Now. Your old prosthesis had haptic feedback, right?"

"I don't know the technical terms in English," the Soldier said.

"Pressure sensitivity? So you could tell how much force you were exerting, pick up things without breaking them?"

"Yes," said the Soldier.

"Any sensors for temperature, vibration, tactile sensation?"

The Soldier shook his head. "No. It conducted heat, so I could feel it if the proximal end got particularly hot or cold." (He shot a dirty look at Clint, who shrugged.) "But no, no direct sensation except pressure."

"All right," said Stark. "Basic motor control first." He finished connecting leads. "Make a fist."

The Soldier glanced skeptically at the arm. Its fingers and thumb closed smoothly into a fist. He raised his eyebrows. "Not bad," he admitted.

"Rotate your hand, palm up. Now palm down." The first movement was smooth, the second hesitant and jerky. "Relax for a second," said Stark, and made some adjustments. "Try palm down again."

This time the movement was smooth and easy.

"Open your fist, one finger at a time, starting with the thumb."

The hand opened. The movement was not only mechanically smooth, it was...coordinated. Graceful. Skilled. Clint shivered a little.

Stark continued to put the arm through its paces, having the Soldier flex and extend the wrist, cock it toward the thumb side and little-finger side, bend and straighten the elbow.

"Okay, let's try attaching it for the rest of the tests," he said, and detached the leads. Banner came over to help and the two first arranged what looked like a gel cushion around the socket, covering the burned part of the chest wall, then attached a harness over the Soldier's shoulders and chest to take part of the weight of the arm. The arm itself didn't seem especially heavy; knowing Stark, it probably weighed exactly what the real one did, within a tenth of a gram. The Soldier flinched just slightly as they attached the arm.

Stark and Banner stepped back out of reach. "Okay," said Stark, tapping on his tablet. "You've got control. See how it feels."

The Soldier looked down at the arm and wriggled his fingers, touched his thumb with the tip of each finger in turn. He raised his arm overhead and reached behind his back to touch his shoulder blade. He clasped his hands together and pulled, right arm against left. "Decent range of motion," he said. "Weak, though. I assume that's deliberate."

"It is. It's also adjustable. We'll do a little negotiating about what settings to leave you with. Catch."

Stark tossed a styrofoam cup to the Soldier. He caught it out of the air without denting it.

"Excellent," said Stark. "How's it feel at the interface? Secure? Any chafing or friction?"

"Not really," the Soldier said grudgingly. "I could live with it like it is now."

"Good," said Tasha, "because that's pretty much the plan."

"What?" the Soldier said.

"I'm going to fly you the hell out of here," she said, "and I'm going to give you a chute and a backpack of supplies, and I'm putting you in the wind. And if I see you again without prior arrangements, I will shoot you."

He studied her. "Why?" he said finally.

"I don't have the spare resources to deal with you," she said.

"Hang on, one more thing," Stark interrupted. "And this is between you and me; I haven't talked it over with Romanov because frankly I don't think it should be her call." He tapped on his tablet for a few seconds. "Do you prefer the arm like it is now," he asked, "or would you rather have it like this?" He clicked once on the tablet, then reached over and touched one finger to the back of the Soldier's left hand.

The Soldier flinched. He slowly turned his hand palm-up and ran the tips of his real fingers over his prosthetic palm. He stared up at Stark. "You—" He swallowed. "You can—"

"I don't like building crap," Stark said. "Without the rest of my equipment, I can't make it look like your other one. But this, I can do."

"Stark," Tasha growled, but the inventor held up a hand.

"Talk to the hand, Romanov," he said. "You hire me, you get my best work or nothing."

The Soldier cradled his left hand in his right and stared down at it.

"You win," he whispered. "I can't…don't…don't take this from me. Please. I'll—"

"Stop right there," said Stark. "This is not a fucking torture technique. You want sensation in the arm, you got it. Keep it. Take it home, play with it, hand it over to the FSB for all I care. I am not bargaining with you."

The Soldier closed his eyes, clutched his new arm to his chest like a broken favorite toy, and shuddered. "Please," he said again, very softly.

Rogers stood up from his chair, limped across the room without his cane, sank to one knee and put his arms around the Soldier. He whispered in the other man's ear and held him while Banner injected the sedative into the cannula, kept holding him until he went limp and Tasha unbuckled the restraints, picked him up and eased him onto the bed and refused to make eye contact with any of the others as they straightened the Soldier's body and restrained him again.

"I'll stay with him," Rogers said firmly.

"Me too," said Stark.

Tasha jerked her head towards the door and walked out. Banner stopped to pick up his tablet from the table and followed; Clint brought up the rear.

Clint was shaken. He'd seen men fall apart under interrogation; he'd seen the aftermath of imprisonment and torture; he'd broken a couple of times himself. But never like this. It was as if someone had pulled the entire earth from beneath the Soldier's feet.

"Natasha," Banner spoke up, "Look at this." He held out his tablet to her; on it was a diagram of a brain, with a flickering, ever-changing display of colored lights playing across its surface. "This is a recording of what happened when Tony turned on the sensory function of the arm. Look. His whole motor and sensory cortex is lighting up on the right side," said Banner, "and it's kindling activity in the amygdala and hippocampus."

"Which means…?" she asked.

"The touch sensation from the arm set off a cascade of reactions, especially in the parts of the brain that encode emotion and memory," Banner said. "And look at this." He scanned back a few minutes and restarted the recording. "See this green here? That's constant, low-grade activity in areas associated with chronic pain. Watch what happens to that signal when Tony switches the sensation on."

Clint watched over Tasha's shoulder as the green signal blinked out, replaced by the multicolored wash they'd seen before.

"What was that?" she asked.

"I think that was phantom limb pain. It's common after an upper limb amputation. It can be severe, and it can last for years. And it's caused by the brain trying to compensate for missing sensory input from the amputated limb."

"So when he put on the new arm and Tony switched it on so he could feel it…"

"The pain went away," said Banner. "Maybe for the first time since he lost the arm."

"_Bozhe moi_," said Tasha. "And he thought that was what we meant to do. A promise, for his cooperation."

Clint felt as sick as Tasha looked. "I think…" he said hesitantly, "I think Rogers might have thought the same thing."


	22. Chapter 22

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty-two_

"Steve," said Tony.

Steve ignored him. He was thinking about the look on Bucky's face as he'd fallen into the valley. For months, when he remembered him, that was the face he saw. Later, after the first shock of grief had passed, some of the earlier memories had gradually seeped back, so that occasionally he could remember the flash of a smile, or the wicked look he used to get just before he cut some idiot down to size in the canteen, or the cold, focused look he wore just before he pulled the trigger. Sometimes, the feverish, unseeing stare he'd had in the HYDRA prison, as he'd mumbled his name, rank, and serial number, over and over and over.

Now, he thought, he'd see this: a man injured, betrayed, broken, pleading for mercy.

He had never felt anger like this. Not at Erskine's death; not when Phillips had refused to send a rescue mission.

He'd never felt shame like this either.

"Steve," said Tony again, "listen, you've got to believe me, I wouldn't, I'd never build anything to be used to torture someone. I've _been_ tortured. There's nothing, no possible justification—"

Steve, in a remote, theoretical way, imagined grabbing the mouthy bastard by his collar and snapping his neck.

"Tony," he said, "for the love of God, shut up."

He kept his back to Stark, kept his eyes on Bucky's bruised face.

"Steve," said Tony one more time.

"Stark," said Steve without looking up, "if you speak to me one more time I will break both your hands."

He felt as if there were a wall of ice between himself and the rest of the world. On the other side of it Bucky slept, the pain and fear and loss smoothed away and his face in repose. Somewhere over there Stark was fidgeting, dying to talk and talk and talk and prove he hadn't done anything wrong. Further out, Romanov and Barton and Banner and all of SHIELD, serving who knew what masters, and really, who cared? It had pretty much ceased to matter to Steve who the players were or what game they thought they were playing. There was only false hope and betrayal, in a never-ending cycle, and he was sick, so sick, sick to the heart of it all.

_How long did you fight the Soviets?_ he thought. _How long did you hold out, hoping I'd come rescue you again?_

Dimly he became aware he was hearing a noise, soft but insistent, coming from everywhere. Heavy rain on the roof, his sluggish brain eventually decided. He looked up.

Stark was looking up too, and he was slipping a metal bracelet on his left wrist, then another on his right.

Heavy rain. And, not quite masked by it, the sound of an approaching helicopter.

Steve watched unmoving as Stark went out the door, one finger on his earpiece, muttering to himself or Jarvis or whoever was on comms as he left.

Steve looked around the room. One exit. Two chairs, better than nothing for weapons. Nothing sharp, explosive or poisonous.

If Bruce and Tony couldn't stop them, he thought, it wasn't going to matter.

Actually, if the chopper had missiles, it wasn't going to matter anyway.

The sound of the rotors grew louder and more distinct, and then, strangely, implausibly, receded until the rain masked it completely.

He hadn't heard any gunfire. No shouts. No sound of Iron Man's repulsors.

His nerves danced with adrenaline. When he heard the footsteps, he got between Bucky and the door.

"Cap," said a quiet voice outside the door. Hawkeye.

"Come in," Steve said.

The door opened and the archer stepped in. He had Steve's shield in one hand, a holstered pistol in the other. He handed them both over.

"Thanks," said Steve. He strapped the holster on, checked to be sure the pistol was loaded and the safety on. "What's the situation?"

"The copter wasn't carrying missiles, and it didn't look like it had guns either," said Hawkeye, "but it was flying pretty low and it was unmarked. Probably scoping out the house. We should expect a ground assault."

"Did Tony break cover?"

"No. If they're just using visual, they might not have made us. Sitwell and Tasha were under cover. Car's in the garage with the garage door closed. No lights visible from outside. But if they had IR or EM scanners, they'll know we're here. You got an earpiece?"

"No," said Steve.

Hawkeye handed him one and he put it on.

"We're maintaining radio silence until there's something to report," Hawkeye said. "Sitwell and Tasha outside, Stark and Banner as our main defense. I'll stay here with you. If we get attacked, you and I will get the Soldier into the car and make a run for it."

"Where to?"

"I don't know."

They sat in tense silence for a few minutes. Then Sitwell's voice came over the comm.

"I've got one individual walking up the road toward the house from the southeast," he said. "He's got his hands on his head, and he looks a lot like Director Fury."

"Tasha," said Hawkeye, "you got eyes on him?"

"It's Fury," said Natasha's voice.

Steve looked over at Hawkeye. "Fury does not set foot in this room," he said. Hawkeye nodded, then keyed his comm.

"Sitwell, bring him in. Tasha, stay on watch. I'll be right there." He looked back at Steve. "Who do you want with you?" he asked.

"Banner," said Steve, after a moment.

"You got it. We'll keep the comms open."

"Thanks," Steve said.

Banner brought his tablet with him, and on it he and Steve watched as Hawkeye, Sitwell and Stark ushered Fury in. His black leather coat was streaming wet. He cocked an eyebrow at the matching jackets Sitwell and Hawkeye were wearing.

"Starting your own private army?" he asked mildly.

"No sir," said Hawkeye. "Unless you consider the Avengers an army."

"Was that your copter?" asked Stark.

"Yes. Where's Rogers?" Fury asked.

"Guarding the Soldier, along with Banner," said Hawkeye.

"Take me to them."

"No, sir."

"Agent Barton, are you refusing a direct order?"

"I'd prefer to regard it as refusing to acknowledge your jurisdiction, sir. Right now SHIELD is compromised. As far as we're concerned, this is an Avengers mission and Captain Rogers is in charge. His orders are that you have no access to the Soldier. "

Fury scowled, but didn't argue.

"All right," he said at last. "I have some information for you, if you can at least regard us as allies."

"Provisionally," Hawkeye said.

Fury let that pass. "Over the last two weeks," he said, "five high-level HYDRA officials have either disappeared or been found dead. This suggests to us that there's been a shakeup in their leadership."

"Over that same period of time," Stark said, "there's been an uptick in attempts to hack into Stark Industries communications, records, and properties, including the Tower. None successful, but it's a statistically significant jump in activity."

"We also got an interesting rumor about the NSA," Hawkeye said. "Did you know they had an obit on file for Cap, stating that the Winter Soldier had assassinated him? Written, in a stunning coincidence, two weeks ago."

"I did not know that," said Fury.

"Any progress in figuring out who assaulted the SHIELD medical facility?" Sitwell asked.

"Yes," said Fury. "They were a run-of-the-mill 'sovereign citizens' group, except that someone pointed them at us and pulled their trigger to the tune of fifty thousand dollars. Of course they don't have any useful identifying information about who hired them, and payment was in cash, unmarked bills, so far untraceable."

"Great," said Stark. "Hang on a sec." He put a hand on his earpiece, apparently conferring with Jarvis. "What? Hard lockdown, J, and get her out of sight."

"What's going on?" asked Fury.

"Somebody tried to grab Pepper as she was coming to work this morning," Stark said. "Shots fired, and they weren't conventional weapons. She's okay for the moment. Give me a sec."

"Think this is connected with what's going on at SHIELD?" Sitwell asked in an undertone.

"Hard to say," said Hawkeye. He pulled out his phone and started typing, sent the text off, and waited for Stark.

"Somebody got tired of subtlety," said Stark coming back to the table. "A few minutes ago Pepper was walking from her car to the front door when three guys ran up and tried to drag her into a van. She tased one of them; Happy shot one; and the other one shot back with some kind of energy weapon. Narrowly missed Happy; he's unconscious but alive. Three of my people came out of the building and tackled the shooter; he apparently swallowed a cyanide pill. He's toast. So is the one Happy shot. My guys got a gag into the tasered guy's mouth before he could poison himself; they're holding him in a secure room. The tower's locked down and I've got Pepper en route to a safe house."

"Sounds like HYDRA," said Steve.

"Stark, those hacker attacks," said Fury, "do you have any idea what they were looking for?"

"Jarvis says they were probing records from about three to five months ago, mainly related to activity at the Tower."

"Asgard," said Natasha's voice over the comms.

"What?" said several of the others.

"That's when you sent Rogers to Asgard," she said, "from the Tower. If they had Pepper, they could use her as a hostage to get hold of your transporter."

"What would HYDRA want with…oh shit." Stark looked equal parts grim and worried. "The Tesseract is in Asgard."

"Be right back," said Hawkeye, and he grabbed his quiver and his bow and ducked outside.

Steve keyed his com on Hawkeye's channel. "Hawkeye. We need to warn Thor."

"On it," said the archer.

In Steve's mind, images were coalescing. HYDRA's energy weapons. SHIELD's Phase Two arsenal. Schmidt's form dissolving in the blue light of the Tesseract.

The forms of Thor and Loki, sheathed in the same blue light and vanishing into another world.


	23. Chapter 23

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty-three_

Clint sprinted out into the rain, headed for the nearest trees, which were a good quarter of a mile away.

"Clint," said Nat in his ear. "You okay?"

"Yes," he said. "With you in a minute." He ducked under cover, touched the arrow fletched with Huginn's feather, and called him. A few seconds later the raven swooped to a landing on a low branch and vehemently shook himself, scattering raindrops and giving Clint a beady-eyed glare.

"Huginn," Clint said. "Warn Thor and Odin. There's a force massing for an assault on Asgard; they're going to try to seize Tony Stark's machine. Tell Thor it's HYDRA; he knows something about them. They're after the Tesseract. They have weapons that can probably kill your people. We'll try to stop them from our end, but if not—"

The bird gave a fierce yell and took off.

Clint sprinted back toward the house. Nat intercepted him at the front door.

"What was that about?" she asked.

Clint switched off his comm; she did the same. He glanced at his quiver, then back up at her. "You see that one arrow?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Huginn gave me a feather," he said. "I don't know what else it can do, but if you touch it and call him, he'll hear you."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said. "Want to share with the rest of the class?"

"I'll tell Rogers," he said. "Nobody else now, if you don't mind."

She nodded.

"What's the plan?" he asked.

"Stark wants to head back to the Tower to disable the transport device. He doesn't have anyone in place he trusts who has the know-how to do it. Fury offered us the copter, but only if we take him with us. Steve vetoed that."

Clint rolled his eyes. "It's like that goddamn math problem about the duck, the fox and the bag of corn, and you can only carry two of them in the boat at the same time."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Nat, "but I think I'm glad."

"Give me a sec," said Clint, and headed back into the house.

He found Fury, Sitwell and Stark where he'd left them.

"Don't be an idiot," Fury was saying. "You'd be heading right into a trap."

"Yeah, I got that, but news flash: if I don't disable the Asgardinator, it's first come first served. The thing is essentially pushbutton, on/off, coordinates already set, and there's nobody in the Tower I can trust to disable it."

"What about Jarvis?" said Fury.

Stark gave the deep sigh of a man surrounded by idiots. "Jarvis. Doesn't. Have. Hands," he said slowly and distinctly.

"Hold up, Tony," said Banner's voice over the comms. "Can Dummy or You or Butterfingers get to the machine?"

"Yeah."

"Why not just have one of them pull the pomeron diffractor?"

Stark opened his mouth, stopped, said "Um...yeah. That could work. Jarvis, get You to pull the pomeron diffractor and stow it somewhere. Don't tell anyone where it is. Not even me, if you think I'm under duress. Let me know when it's done. And after that, have him keep disassembling; anything small enough for him to take off. Spread it around." He shook his head. "I can't believe I didn't think of that. Thanks, Bruce."

"No problem."

"Be simpler to just blow it up," Fury suggested.

"Even if you did blow it up, there's the problem of convincing HYDRA that it's destroyed, or that they can't coerce you into fixing it," said Sitwell.

"There is that," said Stark.

"They also probably think that there are at least four people who could re-create that machine: you, Selvig, Foster, and Banner," Sitwell continued.

"They may think that," said Banner over the comm, "but as a matter of fact, I don't think any of us, or any combination of us, could do it without Tony. We don't have the engineering chops."

"Could you do it with another engineer? Let's say, for the sake of argument, if there were another Ivan Vanko out there?"

Banner hesitated. "Possibly. Not willingly."

"Leaving that aside," Sitwell persisted.

"Then... probably. Eventually. With room for the occasional horrible accident that would probably leave bits of test subject scattered throughout interdimensional space."

"So, at a minimum," Sitwell said, "we need to secure Selvig and Foster so HYDRA can't get to them, and back up you and Stark for the same reason."

"There's another possibility," said Clint.

"What's that?" asked Stark.

"Jarvis. I'm guessing that he has the plans, and he watched you design the thing."

"Actually, he helped me design the thing. But Jarvis—"

"—doesn't have hands, I know," said Clint. "But he has a voice. Given the theoretical Ivan Vanko type, Jarvis could talk him through a rebuild."

"Wouldn't take an Ivan Vanko, actually. Jarvis could talk Justin Hammer through a rebuild. If Hammer would listen, which he wouldn't. But that's not worth worrying about; Jarvis would never cooperate with HYDRA."

"Are you sure about that?" Clint asked.

"What are you talking about?" said Stark indignantly.

"If HYDRA were holding you hostage, you think Jarvis would refuse to negotiate? What happens to him if you die?"

"I'm not going to discuss that. But no. He wouldn't."

"He'd watch you die. Or, say, watch your hands being removed, one finger-joint at a time? Or watch someone give you a lobotomy the old-fashioned way?"

"Jesus Christ, Barton! Anybody would think—"

"—that I'd been trained to torture people? No, as a matter of fact. But I was trained to anticipate being tortured, and to resist. And cutting your target's friends to pieces in front of him is pretty standard."

Stark scowled. "Okay. Without going into any details, let me say that yes, Jarvis is programmed to be loyal and compassionate and thrifty and all that good Boy Scout stuff. But Jarvis is also an AI, and his programming can be altered. Overwritten. And there are subroutines in place for those kinds of contingencies, because yes, the issue did cross my mind after I came back from Afghanistan. So rest assured; under those circumstances, Jarvis is quite capable of being a complete hardass and watching me die, piece by tiny piece."

"Good to know," said Clint. "I won't even ask about hacking, because I've taken a shot at it, actually, and anybody who could hack Jarvis wouldn't need any help getting to Asgard."

"Thank you," said Stark ironically.

Clint nodded.

"So," he said, "protect hostages; get you, Banner, Selvig, and Foster out of reach; then go after HYDRA, or preferably, after their new leader, whoever he or she is."

"I have a guess," said Rogers' voice over the comm. "I think it's Johann Schmidt."

"Schmidt was _supposed_ to be dead," said Fury irritably.

"Yeah, I know," said Rogers. "As far as I knew in 1943, people who got dissolved into blue light by alien artifacts _were_ dead. Given recent experience, I'm not so sure about that any more."

Fury got up from the table. "I'm going to put Hill on picking up Foster and Selvig," he said. "Carry on, people." He stepped out the door.

"Encrypted channel," said Rogers, and they all switched their comms over. Sitwell stood and took his earpiece out.

"I'm going to stick close to Fury," he said. "Maybe I can keep this from getting too polarized."

"You're taking on a hell of a job," said Clint.

"Somebody's gotta do it, and I don't see Coulson anywhere," Sitwell said grimly. "Later." He followed Fury out the door.

"We still have the problem of the Soldier," said Tasha over the comm. "Steve, I know you're not going to take my word for it, but I had no intention of using the arm as a coercive tactic against him."

Rogers didn't answer.

"I will drop him anywhere outside North America that you and he suggest," Tasha said, "and you can come with us to verify."

"Drop us both," said Steve, "and you've got a deal."

Clint bit back an objection, took a deep breath, tried again. "Cap, if you're going off the grid, you need to designate a second-in-command," he said. "We need a leader. Unless the rest of the team's willing to default back to SHIELD and Fury."

That got a unanimous "no," if you counted "fuck no".

"So…?" Clint asked.

Rogers was silent for a moment, then: "This isn't the Army," he said. "The chain of command's a lot more fluid, and we have wildly different areas of expertise. But if I designate Barton, are the rest of you willing to follow him?"

"Yes," said Tasha.

"Yes," said Banner. "If we can't get you."

"Yes," said Stark. "He and Romanov are the only ones with the appropriate expertise, and I'm sorry, Romanov, I still have nightmares about our last collaboration. No offense."

"None taken," she said.

"Clint, you're it," said Rogers. "Stark, you were talking before about some kind of brace that would let the Soldier walk independently. Is it ready to try out?"

"Yes," said Stark. "As soon as he wakes up. Provided he's, um, up for it."

"The sedative should wear off in another hour or so," said Banner, "or I can counteract it sooner, if you think I need to."

"Hang on a second," said Stark, and muttered to Jarvis. Then: "Okay. The Asgardinator's disabled. Pepper's in a secure location. The Tower's locked down and the employees are being moved out in small groups by various routes. We're about to initiate evacuation of the surrounding buildings via a fake gas leak. I think we can take the time to get the Soldier squared away, and then the rest of us can get back to Manhattan."

Clint's phone chimed. He looked at it and smiled. "Text from an old friend," he said. "I asked her to check her sources for a likely location for HYDRA's new base."

Jeannine's message read:

_Try Pyramida. Old Russian coal-mining _

_town, bought from Norway in the '20s._

_Abandoned, used to be popular with_

_off-track tourists. Last month or two, _

_several violent assaults and a couple_

_disappearances._

"Tasha," he said, "I think I have a drop site for you. And maybe a mission all three of you can get behind."


	24. Chapter 24

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty-four_

Steve looked up as Bucky stirred slightly. His vision was good enough now that he could see the crease that appeared between Bucky's eyebrows, see the movement of his eyes behind closed lids.

Bucky's breathing hitched, then he inhaled deeply and turned his head.

_"Gde ya?"_ he muttered, then his eyes flew open and he gasped. He looked around wildly, focused on Steve.

"Steve! Jesus, I—" he broke off as he jerked his arms upward and met the resistance of the restraints.

"Bucky," said Steve. "Breathe for a minute, buddy. I'm going to let you go, but I want you all the way awake and oriented first."

"I...where the hell..." Bucky craned his neck, trying to get a look at his left arm.

"You're in Banner's safe house," said Steve. "Your left arm is a prosthesis that Tony Stark built you after Hawkeye destroyed your old one. Do you remember?"

"I remember...more than that," said Bucky. "I remember Brooklyn. The Army. HYDRA. Schmidt. Going after Zola. The train. After that—" He frowned, closed his eyes. "There was a long time...every time I went to sleep, I dreamed I had two arms. And every time I woke up, I only had one. Until now."

He opened his eyes, locked them on Steve's face. "Tell me again what happened to my family. Go slow."

Steve swallowed. "Dana got scarlet fever and died in 1945. Charlie got a job as a longshoreman; he was killed in an accident on the docks. That was in 1949. Harriet got married in 1961; she and her husband died in a car accident in 1962. I couldn't find any other relatives."

"Jesus," Bucky said again. He took a deep, shaky breath. "I remember 1962. But not '45 or '49. I must have...I was asleep. Or still being...altered. Or trained. Or whatever you want to call it. I didn't know I had a family. For a while, they even made me forget I spoke English. Until my Russian was perfect, I guess."

"Do you remember Natasha?"

"God, yes." He didn't elaborate, but he shivered. "She—listen, Steve, get her in here. I need to talk to her."

"All right." Steve activated the comm. "Natasha. He's awake, and he wants to talk to you."

"On my way," she said. "Clint, can you tag up with me?"

"Roger," said Hawkeye.

In a few moments there was a knock at the door. "Dr. Banner, may I relieve you?" asked Natasha.

"Sure," said Banner, and the two traded places.

"Natachenka," said the Soldier, craning his neck to try to see her, "Come here."

She came around the bed and started unbuckling his restraints. Once freed, he sat up so he could look at her more comfortably.

"How are you?" she asked.

He laughed shortly. "I don't even know how to answer that, Natalia Alianovna. Could you be more specific?"

"Are you in pain?"

"No. Not much. Less than I've been in for the past sixty years."

"Tell me your name."

"Which one? James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 12032557. Bucky. Yakov Ivanovich. Yasha. _Zimniy Soldat_."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Steve tells me this is a safe house. Belongs to Dr. Banner. I don't know where. Somewhere in New England. Massachusetts?"

"Do you know the date?"

"Late March, 2013. I don't know the day."

"Who do you serve?"

He laughed again. "That, I think, nobody knows the answer to. Least of all me. Listen. I have a question for you. Who is second in command of the FSB?"

"Mikhail Andreyevich Sokolov."

The Soldier nodded, his eyes dark under his lowered brows. "Galina said the same. That…is not what they told me. Someone took me out and woke me up without authorization. They had the codes; I didn't question them. It's always a new leadership when I wake up. But this time, they were fakes."

"We suspected something like that," said Natasha. "Yasha, I need you to understand about the arm. It's not a lever to get your cooperation. It's a gift."

"Gifts come with strings," said the Soldier.

Natasha kept her face expressionless. "Some do. All we want in exchange for this one is for you to step back from your mission. Especially since it wasn't legitimate."

The Soldier considered. "All right," he said at last. "Take me as close as you can get to Volgograd. I'll take it from there. I have caches, contacts from the old days—"

"Wait," said Steve. "Natasha, don't you want to tell him about HYDRA?"

"What about HYDRA?" said Bucky.

"Someone's recently seized power within HYDRA," said Natasha. "Steve thinks it's Schmidt, that he somehow managed to survive. At any rate, whoever it is seems to be trying to regain the Tesseract. We think that sending you after Steve was one of several distractions to get SHIELD, the Avengers, and the FSB all out of the way. We suspect HYDRA's set up a base in Pyramida, in the Svalbard Archipelago."

The Soldier had his game face on now, cold and hard. "That's where they kept me," he said. "The KGB. In the beginning."

"We're planning on raiding it," said Steve. "Want to come along?"

The Soldier looked steadily back at him, and then something in his face shifted and it was Bucky who said, "Still don't know how to back away from a fight?"

Steve smiled. "Who's gonna teach me? You?"

Bucky shook his head. "Haven't gotten the hang of it yet," he said. "Okay. Guess I can follow you one more time."

The next hour was a scramble. Stark and Banner came back, and they fitted Bucky with a powered leg brace. He could walk, even run, though a bit awkwardly.

"Sorry it's a rush job," Stark said. "If we get time later, I can do you a much better one. This is basically off-the-shelf stuff, and it's not designed for combat. So look, if it gets damaged and powers down, you can lock it here." He pointed out a small switch. "That'll at least keep the knee straight so you can walk."

The two scientists gave the arm a last once-over; Stark adjusted it until it was slightly stronger than the right arm. He handed Bucky a deck of cards. "Try it out," he said.

Bucky took the cards, turned them over in his hands, cut, shuffled, shuffled again, then did a one-handed cut with his left hand and turned the deck up to show the Ace of Spades on the bottom. He smiled.

"Note to self," said Stark. "Do not play poker with this man. Okay, Sgt. Molotov, give 'em hell for borscht, blini and babushka." He gave a mock-salute and departed, muttering to Jarvis on his way out the door. Banner started packing up equipment. A minute later Steve heard the whine of repulsors outside, and then the rapidly-fading _whoosh_ as Iron Man took to the air.

Bucky looked over at Natasha.

"Planning on giving me a weapon?" he asked. "Or am I just going to have to wait till I can take one of HYDRA's?"

"We'll work that out," said Natasha. "Along with clothes and equipment and transportation." She looked up at Steve. "Are we good, Captain?"

He mulled that over for a while. "Bucky, do you trust Natasha?"

"That's…complicated to answer, Steve," Bucky said, eyes on Natasha. "I've known her a lot longer than you have. I trust her competence. I trust her not to backstab either of us or leave us behind if the mission goes south. But I can't read her, and I don't have a handle on what's changed about her in the past ten years. So in the long term, she makes me nervous."

"And you?" Steve said, looking at Natasha. "Would you sleep if he were keeping watch?"

She smiled slowly. "Perceptive question, Steve. Yes. For the duration of this mission, I would."

"All right then," Steve said. He keyed his comm and said, "Hawkeye? We're good to go. What can you get us for transportation?"

"Car from here to Westover. Charter from there to Gander. Deadheading on a Stark cargo flight from there to Vienna for resupply and staging. Nat knows the location."

"How are we for gear and weapons?" Tasha asked.

"Stark's sending the Soldier's rifle on the cargo flight," said Hawkeye. "The house in Josefstadt has a full set of everything for both of us. I imagine the Soldier can make do with my tac gear. Tell him to leave the bow and arrows the hell alone. "

Natasha's mouth twitched. "Yasha," she said, "Stark's sending you back your rifle. Clint's going to lend you some gear. He says hands off the bow and arrows."

"Tell him I'll respect his property," said the Soldier. "But that may not extend to everything he regards as his."

"Clint, the Soldier says what's yours is yours, but be careful about what you assume is yours."

"Message received," said Hawkeye. "I'm not worried. Dr. Banner, you and I are heading out in the copter with Fury and Sitwell in ten."

"I'll be ready," said Banner, closing and latching his crate of medical supplies.

"Roger that," said Steve. "Good luck."

"Same to you," said Hawkeye. "We'll be in touch."

"Steve," said Dr. Banner, holding out his hand.

Steve shook it, clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you," he said. "Good luck in New York."

"Thanks," said Banner. He nodded to the Soldier. "If you have problems related to the arm or the brace, call me. I'll do my best to help. Assuming I'm, you know, myself."

The Soldier studied him. "Schmidt said those who got the serum had left humanity behind. He certainly did. Steve definitely didn't. You and I…may be somewhere in between. Maybe we get to choose."

Banner returned his look. "Maybe," he said.

* * *

_Gde ya?_ (Где я?): Where am I?

_Zimniy Soldat_ (Зимний Солдат): The Winter Soldier


	25. Chapter 25

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty-five_

Aboard the copter, Clint pulled out his phone, called up a dropbox account, and saved a short text file.

_Hawk seeks raven._

He checked it again half an hour later. A line had been added.

_Lonely?_

He smirked to himself, and added:

_Not ATM. Guess who's not dead? His initials are JS and his name rhymes with Wotan Shit._

He hit "save", then "refresh".

_! ! where? ?_

Clint replied,

_Not sure yet but good odds will head for NYC in near future. Want in?_

Again the reply was immediate. _YES._

He replied, _Can I get a pledge from your boss not to break Stark for the duration?_

A short delay this time. After about a minute: _Boss says for JS he'll give Stark a pass, but don't push your luck._

"Yessss," breathed Clint. _Okay, will keep you posted. Cheers, brighteyes._

And after a moment,

_Behave, hotshot, I'm old enough to be your mother. Fly well._

He logged off, leaned back and shut his eyes.

"What are you up to?" Sitwell asked quietly.

"Recruiting backup," said Clint.

"Anything I need to know about?"

"Well, if you end up in the boss battle, you might want to assess how likely you are to set off a metal detector."

Sitwell frowned in thought, then his eyebrows shot up. "Christ, Barton, are you crazy?"

"Hey, against Schmidt I'll take what I can get."

"You have an in with—"

"Shh. Walls have ears. Especially walls owned by SHIELD."

"Goddamn."

"Keep in mind that one of us has no problem whatsoever dealing with this particular individual." He glanced over at Banner, apparently asleep in his seat.

"There's that," said Sitwell. "On the other hand, Stark—"

"I think there will be a more attractive target than Stark when the time comes."

Fury spoke over the comm. "Helicarrier in five."

"Roger that," said Clint and Sitwell. Banner stirred in his seat and rubbed a hand over his face. He sat up straighter and put on his glasses.

"Anyone heard from Tony?" Banner asked.

"Not yet," said Sitwell.

They came in for a landing on the Helicarrier; Hill met them on the deck.

"Foster and Selvig are secured, sir," she said to Fury. "No word yet from Stark, but our observers say everything looks quiet around the Tower. Evacuation's complete and we have crews disguised as utility workers allegedly searching for the gas leak, keeping a perimeter."

"Good," said Fury. "Any word on Romanov and Rogers?"

"They're boarding at Gander; the Soldier's still with them and appears cooperative," she said. "So far, so good."

They trooped into the observation room. Clint dropped into a seat at an unmanned console; the agents on either side of him edged away from him slightly. He ignored them. They'd either get over it, or not, and in either case worrying about it wasn't going to do him any good.

"Dr. Banner," said Hill, "we're hoping you can give us some assistance with finding HYDRA."

"Well, I can search for the energy signature from their weapons," Banner said, "but if you still have all those Phase Two arms on board, my detection equipment will be completely useless."

"All Phase Two tech has been relocated," said Fury.

"Then I guess I'd better get to work," said Banner. "I assume that if I find one of your caches, you'll tell me to keep looking?"

"We will. Should be a useful test of your search protocol."

Banner nodded. "It should, at that." He headed off to his lab.

Fury glanced over at Clint. "Would you care to discuss recent events, Agent Barton?"

"In your office, sir?" Clint asked.

"That would be appropriate," said Fury, and jerked his head in that direction. Clint peeled himself out of the chair (comfy; probably excessively so, for purposes of professional alertness) and strolled off to Fury's office. You never knew; there might be coffee.

Fury shut the door behind them and glared at him. "Barton, as you are now aboard a SHIELD installation I expect your full and prompt cooperation, or I may well forget to hand you a parachute when I show you the door. Is that clear?"

"Sir," said Clint.

"Now give me a full and detailed debriefing on everything that's happened since you joined up with Rogers and Romanov."

Clint did so, omitting his communications with sources other than Tasha and Cap. It took some time.

"In your estimation, does Agent Romanov remain loyal to SHIELD?"

Clint managed not to grind his teeth at that. "Yes sir."

"If your opinion were otherwise, would you tell me?"

He looked Fury in the eye. "If my opinion were otherwise, I would either have told you already, or I wouldn't be here. Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"SHIELD is clearly compromised. Although both Agent Romanov and I have sworn loyalty to the organization, that duty is tempered by our responsibility to be sure our orders are legitimate. Otherwise we end up like the Winter Soldier: taking assignments from somebody with no authority to give them."

"Leaving aside the question of how legitimate the FSB's authority over him is to start with. Or the KGB's, before them."

"Yes sir. Bottom line, yes, we're loyal to SHIELD. That doesn't mean we'd launch a nuke at Manhattan if SHIELD told us to. With all due respect."

"Better be careful where you draw that line between independent thinking and insubordination, Barton."

"Coulson told me when he brought me in that he'd tell me when to take the shot, but he'd listen if I said no. That's worked out well for you so far."

"Some might argue that it's because of you that we don't have Coulson any more."

Clint's breath caught in his throat. It took every ounce of self-control he had to keep his voice level. "The damage I did under Loki's control, I did while blindly following orders. To the extent I was able to limit that damage, it was because I was using what little independent thought I had. For example, I did not blow your fucking brains out. Sir."

"So noted, Agent Barton. Dismissed."

Clint decided to go hang out with Banner in the lab. Not that he was particularly fond of the doc, but the taste of SHIELD in his mouth was a little too strong just then.

Banner looked up briefly when he came in, but turned back to his equipment before he said, "Problems with Fury?"

"Nothing I can't handle," said Clint.

Banner continued working in silence for a while. Then, keeping his eyes on his work, he said, "I'll say this once and then I'll shut up about it. I've woken up in the ruins of a building I destroyed. There were bodies. It's easier for me, I think, because I don't have to watch myself do it, and I don't remember afterwards. But if it would help to talk, I'm here."

"I'll keep that in mind," Clint said. The silence stretched out between them for a while, then he made himself add, "Thanks."

Banner nodded without looking up.

Clint sat and watched him for a while longer, until Banner sat back and said, "There. Search underway."

"I'm jonesing for a cup of coffee," said Clint. "You?"

"Sounds good," Banner said. "This'll run by itself. Let's go forage." He glanced sidelong at Clint with the barest ghost of a smile. "Let 'em get all their flinching over with at one time."

Clint sighed. "Yeah."

There was indeed a lot of flinching as the two of them wandered through the more public areas of the carrier. They avoided the observation deck, but both of them paused at the doorway to the bay where the Hulk cage had formerly been installed.

Banner stared into the empty center of the room. Clint looked at the too-shiny area of wall behind the controls, scrubbed and sanitized to gleaming sterility. With an effort, he unclenched his fists, leveled out his breathing. He glanced over at Banner. The scientist's face was as stony as his own.

"So, we done with our own flinching?" Clint asked.

"For now," said Banner. "Think I'll make mine decaf, though."

Clint smiled grimly. "Yeah."

They found coffee, such as it was, in one of the lounges, fortunately unoccupied. They took their cups back to the lab with them. Banner checked his readouts; no results yet.

"Thanks for being willing to help us with this," Clint offered.

"Who's 'us'?" asked Banner.

"I'm wearing my SHIELD hat at the moment," said Clint, "but actually, if I meant 'us' as in 'the Avengers' I don't think I would have said anything. I'd take it as a given."

"Hm," said Banner. "Well, in this case the causes line up neatly. And in fact, I'd have done it as a personal favor to Tony. Or Pepper. Or even Happy. So, no problem."

"Any word on any of the Stark crew?"

"I got an update on Happy while you were in with Fury. He's still unconscious, but stable. They're running tests."

"What hit him? I thought those HYDRA weapons were pretty much disintegrator guns."

"They are. But apparently this one was either a near-miss or a ricochet. Also, he was wearing one of Tony's new uniform jackets. That may have made a difference."

"I notice you don't have one."

"No. Tony felt it might be…imprudent. The material's tough enough that it might actually do damage if I transform while wearing it. It's not very elastic."

Clint winced, picturing it. "Ouch."

One of Banner's monitors went 'ping' softly. He checked it, then keyed his comm. "Director Fury, I have a positive on latitude 32.6208° north, longitude 83.6000° west," he said. "One of yours?"

Apparently Fury said "yes," because Banner replied. "Okay, we'll keep looking."

A few minutes later, the opening riff to "Out Ta Get Me" started playing over the PA system. Loudly. Clint rolled his eyes. Banner just shook his head.

"Shall we?" Clint asked.

"Go ahead. I'll catch up about the time Fury gets through lecturing him about hacking the comms."

By the time Clint got to the observation deck, the Guns N' Roses had been, ahem, jammed. Too bad. Stark was lounging against one of the windows, visor open, talking to Fury with the nonchalant air he used with the paparazzi.

"So far, nothing since the attack this morning. Pepper's fine. Happy's stable, which, frankly, given that he should be completely gone, is pretty encouraging. Oh, except for a frankly laughable DDOS attack on the Stark servers, which is like trying to take this thing down with spitballs. They don't even get close enough to bounce off."

"And what's the current status on your machine?" Fury asked.

"Inoperable," said Stark. "And that's all the detail you're getting in a roomful of people I don't know. No offense, rank and file."

Banner wandered in with a tablet in his hand, nodded absently to Tony, and said to Fury, "Kind of an odd signature here. Last time the satellites passed over this point, nothing. This time, there's a faint signal. Is it yours?"

Fury glanced at the coordinates. "No."

"Can we get more eyes on it?"

Fury nodded to Hill; she took the tablet and began typing on one of the consoles.

"Give it a minute, Dr. Banner," she said. "We're moving a drone into position."

As soon as she'd said the words, Banner's tablet pinged repeatedly. He grabbed it up, looked at the screen and said, "Oh shit."

Alarms began blaring all over the room.

"Sir! We've got an unscheduled launch from…"

"…Tierra del Fuego," Banner finished. "Looks like it's heading into orbit." Schematics appeared on all the screens on the deck and they watched frozen as the blip became three, four, eight, and each of the eight split into dozens of smaller ones.

"Those are tiny. What the hell are they targeting?" Fury asked.

"Comsats," said Stark. "I'm getting back to the Tower before Jarvis can't reach the suit." He closed his faceplate and sprinted for the flight bay.

"Incoming!" said one of the agents on watch. "We got the first few but there are more where they came from!"

The carrier trembled as fighter engines began to warm up.

"Doc," said Clint, "I don't know about you but I'd be happier on the ground. Not much I can do against missiles."

"Same here," said Banner.

"Take the copter and watch Stark's back," said Fury. "I'll send an escort with you."

Clint and Banner took to their heels. Behind them, pale in the sunlit sky, antimissile missiles began flashing outside the windows.


	26. Chapter 26

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty-six_

Steve sat back in the jump seat that backed up to the cargo jet's cockpit and stretched his legs. He'd taken the protective boot off. His ankle still felt stiff, but the pain was almost completely gone, and everything seemed to be working normally.

In the other jump seat to his left sat Bucky, eyes closed. His broken nose was still vividly bruised and slightly swollen. He hadn't gotten around to removing the adhesive tape. He'd taken off the leg brace and, after some rapid-fire back and forth with Natasha in Russian, the prosthetic arm as well. The exposed skin of his chest and shoulder had been red and, in places, bloody; he'd grudgingly let her bandage it for him.

Natasha sat on a bale of something, leaning back on another, looking over maps or diagrams on her phone. Steve watched her until she glanced up at him.

"I owe you an apology," he said.

"No, actually you don't," she said. "That is, if you're talking about the situation with the prosthesis."

"I made an unjustified assumption," he continued.

"No. It wasn't unjustified. It just happened not to be true, this time."

"The Widow's worried about her reputation," said the Soldier without opening his eyes. "What was it you said, Natachenka? You leave mercy to God?"

"Don't start, Yasha," she said.

"She's afraid you'll think she's soft," the Soldier continued.

"Actually," said Steve, "there's not much danger of that. I've fought alongside her."

"Then you've seen whatever she wanted you to see," said the Soldier, with a slight smile.

"I think both of us were too busy to be second-guessing each other," said Steve, "what with the alien invasion."

"Besides," Natasha said, "Steve has a gift for assessing character."

"No," said the Soldier, "not really. He sees what he wants to see. Or why would he be on a mission with an assassin and a war criminal?"

"For the same reason the two of you are on a mission with a 24-year-old science experiment with an imaginary rank," said Steve. "Because I have skills you need. And you trust me. Are we done now?"

"Bravo," said Natasha quietly. "And Yasha, I'm sorry I don't have anything to give you for the pain."

The Soldier glanced at her, then closed his eyes again. "It wouldn't help if you did," he said, almost inaudibly. "It's in my brain, not in my arm."

She put her phone away and moved over to sit on the floor beside him. She leaned against his leg. "Not much longer now," she said.

The Soldier rested his hand lightly on her hair. After a while he said, "Do me a favor, both of you."

"What?" asked Steve.

"Call me James. Being jerked back and forth between 'Bucky' and 'Yasha' is giving me whiplash."

"Can do," said Steve.

"All right," said Natasha.

The rest of the flight was uneventful. They reached Vienna in the early morning hours; a cab (or what looked like a cab) picked them up from the Stark cargo office and took them to the safe house. When they got to their destination, the driver handed them a hamper with fruit, bread, cheese and a pint of milk.

The house was clean, neat and Spartan: two bedrooms, two baths, kitchen, dining room and a small but comfortable den. There were covers on the furniture, but no dust. There was no perishable food other than what they'd brought with them, but the kitchen was stocked with canned and bottled goods, coffee, tea, and so forth. Steve started a pot of coffee brewing and sliced some bread.

Bucky had donned his arm again just before they landed, and seemed to be feeling better. He'd removed the tape from his nose, and the bruising had faded to the point that it didn't draw attention. The leg brace allowed him to walk with only a slight limp.

Once they'd eaten, Natasha opened a sliding panel hidden in the larger of the two bedrooms and began removing weapons and supplies. For herself, two pistols and two boxes of ammunition, a pair of throwing knives and a pair of the electrified bracelets that Steve remembered from the battle of Manhattan. For Bucky—James—a pistol, more ammo; a semiautomatic rifle with a scope, which he checked over carefully and then returned to storage in favor of his own rifle; body armor, sized for Hawkeye, but adjustable to fit James well enough; night vision goggles, an earpiece and an assortment of small electronic devices. Steve was satisfied with his shield (concealed for now in a garment bag) and his pistol, but he did take an extra box of ammunition and a well-stocked first-aid kit. James and Natasha each took a small daypack loaded with MREs.

"Any word from the rest of the team?" Natasha asked, and Steve frowned, realizing that yes, they should have heard something by now. He pulled out his phone. No service. He switched on his SHIELD comm and glanced at Natasha and James; they switched theirs on. They could receive and transmit to each other, but there was no other traffic.

James switched on the TV. It showed a blank blue screen on every channel.

They switched on the clock radio; a recorded message was playing in German.

"It says all satellite and cell service is down and internet service is severely limited," Natasha translated for him. "They're asking everyone to stay calm and avoid using landlines or the internet except for absolute emergencies."

Steve parted the blinds and looked out the window. Things looked almost normal, but there seemed to be an unusual number of people holding their cell phones and looking worried. At the coffee shop on the corner, a cluster of people were standing around a police officer, talking urgently. Steve glanced into the sky; no clouds, just the usual few high contrails he'd become accustomed to in this century….

"My God," he said suddenly. "Air traffic control. Natasha, how much—"

"Still mostly radar and radio," she said, "but some of the long-distance tracking relies on satellites."

"I think we'd better move our timetable up," said James. "Let's go find a vehicle."

They found, or to be more precise, stole one almost immediately. James drove. On the highway, the automated traffic-alert signs were blank. The car radio was playing news updates on all channels. "They say there's a breakdown in satellite communications; they can't get official confirmation but it appears to be affecting at least all of Europe and the Americas," Natasha translated.

They reached Brno in a couple of hours. Natasha directed James to a seemingly abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts. In a broken-down warehouse they found a very well-maintained little jet. James whistled in admiration. "Where'd you get a Harrier?" he asked.

"Royal Navy surplus, if you can believe it," said Natasha. "The U.S. Marines bought them up. SHIELD diverted this one. It's a trainer; seats two. Tight fit for three, but it'll get us there, and it doesn't need much runway. I can fly it if you can't, but the seating will work out better if you pilot."

"I've got it," said James.

"Steve, hope you don't object to having me in your lap for a while," said Natasha. Steve shook his head, feeling himself blush. No hope of her not noticing, but he trusted she wouldn't give him a hard time about it. James, no doubt, was another matter, but he'd deal with that later.

Four hours passed very, very slowly. They could talk to each other (at least, two of them at a time could) on the plane's helmet mics, but they picked up nothing else on any band except the Emergency Broadcast frequency, which was repeating the same message they'd heard before, in German, Russian, Polish, and what Natasha identified for him as Hungarian.

They switched the radio off. Eventually they came in for a landing on the old heliport at Pyramida. The place was deserted, the thin crust of icy snow undisturbed, though according to Natasha there would be tourists here in the summer.

"Snow's going to make it difficult to get around without leaving tracks," James commented.

"We'll just have to get underground as quickly as possible," said Natasha. "There's no hiding the jet, in any case."

James took the lead now. "Last time I was here, there was access to the underground tunnels through the mine office building," he said. "This way."

The access point that James remembered was still there, and judging by the dust and spiderwebs it had accumulated, it hadn't been used in years. Steve took that as a good omen. The tunnel was structured like a spiral ramp, sharp bends every thirty meters or so. The air was dusty but not stale; there must be ventilation of some sort, though Steve couldn't feel or hear any air movement. They moved downward quietly (well, silently in the case of the other two; Steve as quietly as he could) with only the dim red LEDs of their headlamps to guide them.

James, a few feet ahead, held up a hand to signal 'stop', and Steve and Natasha froze in their tracks. Steve held his breath and gradually became aware of a soft hum, just at the edge of audibility. James edged forward to the place where the tunnel ended in a blank metal wall. He laid his ear to its surface. After a few minutes he straightened up and signaled Steve and Natasha to back up. They retreated around the last corner. There was a brief silence and then a soft, gritty sliding sound. James tapped his comm twice, and they came back around the turn to see a rectangular opening, just barely illuminated.

The hidden panel opened into the side of a corridor: dark, but quite clean and obviously in use. James signaled Steve to go right, Natasha left; they eased down the hallway as James shut the concealed door behind them. Steve peered around the corner. More empty hallway, but stronger light coming from the far end. He signaled 'all clear' and 'light' to James; Natasha gave the former, but not the latter signal. James motioned her to return, and all three of them slipped around the corner and down the hallway Steve had scouted.

The hum Steve had heard before was stronger now, the 60-Hertz noise of cheap fluorescent light fixtures. The next hallway they came to was lit by their harsh glare. There were no other sounds, no signs of life. The corridors were featureless, the doors labeled only with numbers. Every door they passed was locked, except one that led to a stairway heading up.

Eventually they came back to where they had started. James beckoned them into a tight huddle. "Natasha takes the right side. I take the left. We open every door. Steve, you keep watch. I think all the guards are one level up; they probably don't know there's a direct route to this floor."

Most of the doors had simple mechanical locks that yielded to lockpicks. A few had electronic keypads; the gadgets from Hawkeye's cache made short work of them. At first, they found nothing more interesting than filing cabinets, office and cleaning supplies, an empty guardroom and what looked like a holding cell. One room was filled with what Steve recognized, with a start, as radio equipment.

"Who uses shortwave in this day and age?" he asked.

James shrugged. "It's not left over from the old days," he said. "Looks new."

"Maybe HYDRA's responsible for the satellite outage," said Natasha, "and this is their alternate means of communication."

Steve took note of the frequency settings on the transmitter, and they backed out and resumed their search.

Halfway around the circuit, one door led to a room three times the size of any of the others; it was stacked to the ceiling with crates of disturbingly familiar design.

"Phase Two," Steve whispered. James looked inquiringly at him.

"SHIELD's program to collect and replicate HYDRA weapons," Natasha explained.

Steve opened one of the crates. It contained a familiar bulked-up, slightly alien-looking rifle, but it was completely drained of power. So were the next few.

"I'm guessing they're planning on recharging these once they get the Tesseract," said Steve.

Natasha nodded. "Makes sense."

James was looking up at the ceiling, frowning.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"Those conduits," said James. "They look like…" his voice faded out as he followed the course of the thick, twisted metal tubes to the far wall. Then he bent to examine the joint between wall and floor. He stood and began running his fingertips along the wall, tapping lightly. At a particular spot, he pulled out one of Hawkeye's gadgets, stuck it to the wall and switched it on. Yellow lights began racing around a circular track, then one by one they turned green. There was a click, and a section of wall the size and shape of a door slid back half an inch. James grabbed the edge of it and pulled. The recessed section slid aside, and lights began coming up on the other side of it.

James stepped through. Natasha and Steve followed.

They were in a small chamber, about twelve feet square. The walls were taken up by panels of electronics, with dials, switches and readouts all glowing a soft blue.

In the center of the room was a raised area with a heavy, smooth metal container, like a hybrid between a propane tank and a coffin. There was a glass panel on the top near one end.

"_Bozhe moy,_" said Natasha. "James, did they have another—"

"I thought they killed the program after me," he said. He stepped closer, looked down at the glass. "It's occupied," he said.

Natasha stepped up beside him and then recoiled sharply. She didn't actually gasp, but she held her breath for an instant, and when she looked back at Steve the expression of unguarded shock on her face startled him.

"Natasha?" he said, and stepped up to see for himself.

For a crazy moment he thought, _this has got to be some kind of joke._

The readout on the top of the tank showed blood oxygenation at 98% and a glacially slow pulse of 5 beats per minute. The face behind the glass, submerged in some kind of liquid and eerily blue-white in the dim illumination, looked disturbingly like a corpse.

Appropriate, given that it was the face of Phil Coulson.

* * *

Huge thanks to Ael_tRlailiiu for beta, and my apologies for the delay in posting (minor illness, all better now).


	27. Chapter 27

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty-seven_

Clint had had better days.

He'd had better days of being shot at.

He'd even had better days of being shot at, while falling from a great height.

Of course, this was the first time he'd been shot at, while falling from a great height, pinned against the chest of a giant green rage-monster, but there's a first time for everything, and given that this was Clint Barton's life, it probably wouldn't be the last time.

He'd managed to pilot the helicopter _almost_ the whole way down from the Helicarrier to Stark Tower; their escort had taken out _nearly_ all the SAMs aimed at them, but eventually one got through. They'd both seen it coming; Clint had barely had time to snatch up his bow and quiver when Banner grabbed him by his collar and dragged him out of the pilot's seat. Suddenly there was no room at all in the cockpit; even before he'd quite finished transforming, Banner had wrapped himself around Clint to shield him from the explosion. Then they were both falling free. About a thousand meters to the ground; less of a fall than Stark had had, but then again, Clint wasn't wearing armor, and who could say whether the Hulk would manage to grab a building on the way down?

A sharp, sickening jolt told him that the Hulk had indeed managed to grab _something_, but not a building, unless it was a strangely yielding building that was slowly bending and stretching to decelerate them, and—oh. Stark. Clint heard the noise of the repulsors straining against a heavy load. A huge green arm was blocking most of his view, but he could see that the Hulk had one massive hand wrapped around Iron Man's linked arms. Their fall was still slowing, slowing to a gentle glide, and then Iron Man gave a brisk nod and the Hulk let go and dropped the last fifty feet or so, easily absorbing the shock with his bent knees and letting Clint slither to the ground.

He staggered slightly, gave the Hulk a slap on the back (about kidney level, as high as he could reach) and a nod of thanks, and then sprinted for cover before the smashing began.

Up. He needed a better vantage point. He wasn't going to do much good down here. Stark Tower was surrounded by a thin ring of SHIELD and Stark personnel and a wider band of troops in baggy HYDRA gear; the surrounding buildings, he knew, had been evacuated, so maybe he could do something from there. Not too close but with good sightlines; the ING building would do. He dodged a couple of stray energy beams and fired an explosive arrow to take out the lobby doors.

"Iron Man, do you copy?" he tried, but his headset remained stubbornly silent. Apparently HYDRA's missiles had managed to take out enough communications satellites that their comms were borked. Damn. He took the elevator to the 40th floor and staked out a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows, which he promptly blew out.

Down below, the HYDRA troops appeared to be using mainly conventional rifles and sidearms, with a few holding rocket launchers and about one in ten wielding Phase-Two-style energy rifles. He concentrated his fire on those, using explosive heads while he had them, trying to put the heavy weaponry out of commission.

The Tower's defense appeared to be holding for now; no gaping holes in the building, at least.

His twelfth arrow, and the last explosive head, took out the last of the energy rifles—at least, the last one he could see on this side of the building. He wished for Nat, for Cap, for Thor. Hell, he'd take the Winter Soldier in a pinch; another sniper would come in handy right now. Sixteen arrows gone; have to save one for the grappling hook. He picked out his spot, on the twentieth floor of the Tower, the executive office floor. It had three crucial characteristics: a ledge wide enough for him to stand on, a security camera, and operable windows. If Jarvis would let him in, he had a rifle, ammo, and a shit-ton more arrows stashed inside.

Eighteen arrows, nineteen, two more HYDRA troops down (their baggy suits had no rank markings, but he could tell who was giving orders, and these two had been giving fairly intelligent ones). One arrow left: the raven-fletched one. He attached the grappling head and fired, and some genius down at street level had made him, because even before he clipped on to the cable there were shots pinging off the wall right next to the ex-window he'd been shooting from.

Given that they'd yet to hit the open, ten-foot-wide window frame, he wasn't too worried about getting tagged on his way down the zipline, but when he was pinned against the wall of the Tower it might be another story.

Leap, slide, slam into the wall, stow the bow and pull out the pistol, and there was a little mini shooting gallery below him, five little ducks down in quick succession, only now the damn ducks were shooting back. He switched the pistol to his right hand and with his left detached the fletching, tucking it into a pocket.

"Jarvis, let me in!" he shouted, and greatly to his relief the window nearest him popped open an inch. He sidled over to it (crap, that was close, shrapnel zinging into his scalp), slid it open and slithered through, latched it shut behind him.

"Thanks, Jarvis. Talk to me. What's the situation inside?" Clint said as he checked his surroundings. The offices, glass-walled and expensively-furnished, appeared to be empty.

"Thus far, there has been no incursion into the building," said the AI. "My servers are damaged due to a combination of flooding from explosive charges in the water mains and electromagnetic pulse attacks, but thus far backup servers remain intact. All satellite communications are down."

"Do you have contact with Tony?"

"Yes, Agent Barton. I have shortwave radio contact with the armor."

"Got anything that will patch me into that?"

"You will find the appropriate headset in the storage room nearest Captain Rogers' quarters."

"I'm sure there's a story behind that, but it'll keep. Thanks, Jarvis."

Clint sprinted to the nearest elevator, rode it to Cap's floor and followed Jarvis's handy guidelights to the storage room, which opened to reveal not only the promised headset, but some other useful hardware. He helped himself to a second pistol and stuffed his pockets with spare clips; then he donned the clunky retro headset and switched it on.

"Iron Man, you copy?"

"Hey, Hawk the Slayer, good to hear from you. You inside?"

"Yeah. Want me on the roof, or in here?"

"Stay inside, just in case anybody gets past us. We're good out here. Hulk's taking out anything bigger than a breadbasket, and I'm picking off incoming missiles and keeping reinforcements pinned down. Should be done in time to send out for pizza."

There was a deep boom, which Clint not only heard over the radio but also felt through his feet.

"…or not," said Stark. "Mind checking that out? Sounded like it was below ground level."

"On it," said Clint. He was getting tired of elevators, but it did beat the hell out of dozens of flights of stairs. "Jarvis? Any idea what that was?"

No reply. Shit. He headed for the workshop, figuring that was the highest-value target in the place in the absence of Pepper or any Avengers.

Sure enough, a rattle of gunfire started as soon as the elevator chime pinged; the door opened onto a thick wall of smoke. Clint hit the deck and rolled out into the room, aiming at muzzle flashes. Judging by the strangled groan, he hit at least one of his opponents, but judging by the redoubled gunfire there were a lot more left. He backpedaled until he put a corner between himself and the shooters, then ran like hell till he got to one of the storage rooms. It opened to his palmprint and he slammed and locked the door behind him.

He took a few seconds to catch his breath. As soon as the first shots ricocheted off the door (_level 3 bullet resistant, bitches!_) he unlatched the vent cover and pulled himself up into the ventilation shaft, dropping the cover back into place behind him.

"Stark? You copy?"

"Yeah."

"They're in your workshop. Jarvis isn't answering."

"Noticed. Busy here. Be there when I can."

Clint began scrambling through the vent. Fortunately the noise of gunfire (the idiots were still trying to shoot through the storage room door—obviously _more of what's not working_ will work, right?) covered the sounds of his progress.

"One over this way!" came a shout from the corridor beneath him.

One what, he wondered. Hopefully not, say for example, a heat signature lurking in an air duct. He held still, listened intently. Running footsteps, two or three sets, passed beneath him without pausing.

"Here!"

There was the sound of metal on metal, and a rending creak; something being pried open?

"Hey! What the—"

"Just one of his damn toy robots. Here—"

Two gunshots in quick succession; a pause; a third shot.

"There. Picking up any more?"

"Down that way. Looks like it's up a level."

"Stairs are to the right."

The footsteps faded. Clint found another grating, kicked it loose, dropped to the floor and went to investigate.

A piece of paneling in the corridor wall hung askew; a small, empty gap showed behind it.

In front of it, a wheeled robot lay toppled on its side, its treads spinning uselessly. Damaged coils of wiring sparked and sputtered, and a single mechanical claw opened and closed feebly.

"Barton," said Stark over the headset. "Report."

"They've spread out," Clint said, keeping his voice down. "They're looking for something. Things. They've found at least one of whatever it is behind a wall. And looks like one of your bots tried to stop them and got shot."

"Do me a favor," said Stark. "Kill the sons of bitches."


	28. Chapter 28

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Twenty-eight_

Steve took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "This changes things. We're going to have to take this place and hold it, until we can extract Agent Coulson. However long that takes."

"Twelve to fourteen hours to wake him up," said Natasha.

James gave her a peculiar look.

"I tried to find you," she said. "After they put you under the last time, I hacked into the cryogenics research team's records. Everything recent had been wiped, but the protocols were still there."

"_Can_ we wake him up?" Steve asked. "Or are we going to have to try to get a SHIELD medical team in here?"

"I can do it," Natasha said. "It's fairly simple. Most of it's automated. But once he's awake, things may get difficult. It'll depend on whether he's fully healed, how much conditioning they've been able to do, how intact his memory is."

"And what kind of transportation we can get out of here," James put in.

Steve nodded. "If Schmidt is here, he'll have some kind of escape vehicle," he said. "But he doesn't give a damn about his troops. What's the complement on this base?"

"Couple dozen at most. It's a research facility. If Schmidt's not here, there's probably just a skeleton crew. I'm guessing their attention is elsewhere, since they haven't found us yet."

"All right," said Steve. "James, give us the layout of the place as you remember it."

The plan was simple: take the stairs up to the main level of the hidden base, capture or kill everyone in it as quickly and quietly as possible, then secure transportation and monitor communications until Natasha could get Coulson awake and mobile (if possible).

It went smoothly, at first. As it turned out, there were only eight men on base. Two of them were asleep, and they woke up gagged and in the process of being handcuffed to their bunks. The other six were all crowded into a guardroom, passing around a bottle of schnapps and breathlessly watching one of the security screens. When Steve slammed the door open and the HYDRA troops looked up, there were four guns trained on them (Natasha had two). Two of them jumped straight at the door; both fell dead, one shot in the face, the other in the heart. One backed up to the wall and bit down on his cyanide capsule; the other three looked at each other and put their hands up.

Steve and James secured their captives and gagged them. Natasha looked them over, slowly. Then she nodded at one of them.

"That one," she said.

"Yes ma'am," James said, the perfect picture of a loyal subordinate.

"Put him in the holding cell downstairs," Natasha said. "I'll see to him later." She looked over at Steve. "Take the other two and lock them in with their friends." He complied, doing his best to copy James's demeanor.

When he came back, Natasha and James were dividing their attention between two security screens. One was switching between various views of the outside of the facility. The other, the one the HYDRA troops had found so compelling, was showing footage of a fierce battle, centered on Stark Tower.

It was still early afternoon in Manhattan. The building looked bad; ragged holes in the walls, thick billows of smoke emerging from several points. Iron Man was providing air support, swooping around the tower and firing at HYDRA troops wherever they appeared to be putting too much pressure on the defenders (some in SHIELD uniforms, others in unmarked fatigues). They caught a couple of glimpses of the Hulk, including one shot in which he'd been decoyed into taking a swing at a HYDRA "weapon" that turned out to be a holographic projection; the Hulk's fist had gone right through it and punched another breach into the wall of the Tower.

The video was obviously being shot by the attackers, and probably intended to make them look good; but even so it was disconcerting. There was a running tally at the bottom that read "96% recovered"; as they watched, it updated to "98%".

On the screen, Iron Man came around for another pass. He veered to avoid a column of smoke, banking close to one of the neighboring buildings. From the roof of the building something that looked like a spinning net dropped over him. Initially it seemed not to hinder him much; he looped upwards as if to shake it off, but the strands were thickening, spreading, and suddenly the suit was completely engulfed in a dark, liquid-like layer. The repulsors sputtered, then flickered out, and the suit was tumbling to the ground. It hit heavily, with no bounce or recoil.

At the bottom of the screen a red X appeared over one of three pale circles.

James put a hand on Steve's shoulder and shook him. "There's nothing we can do in that fight," he said. "Let's finish our own."

Steve nodded and glanced up at Natasha. "Go start on Coulson," he said. "James, keep an eye on this. I'll see about transport."

Steve methodically worked his way through the empty hallways, looking for strays. He found none. At one point James came on the comm to say, "The Hulk's down. Same weapon that took out Stark."

_All up to Hawkeye and the ground troops now,_ Steve thought. He found the door that led to a garage; four Humvees sat in a row. The fuel tanks were full, keys in the ignitions. "We have transportation," he reported, and the others acknowledged. "Natasha, anything I can do to help?"

"Not right now," she said.

"I don't see how they're expecting this to work," said Steve. "They can't hope to launch their assault from the Tower, and they can't take the arc reactor with them."

"Maybe they have an alternative power source," said Natasha.

"Like what?" asked Steve.

"Well…anyone know what happened to Loki's scepter?"

"Hell. Yeah, that could work. SHIELD has it somewhere, and HYDRA has moles in SHIELD."

"Barton's still alive," James reported. "I just saw a couple of guys go down with arrows in them."

"I'm going out to check the perimeter," Steve said. "HYDRA does tend to employ idiots, but there should have been someone on patrol."

"Twenty bucks says it's one of those six with the schnapps," James said. "But watch your back anyway. I've got night vision goggles if you want them."

"Sounds good," said Steve. He jogged back to the guardroom, got the goggles, and took a cautious stroll around the outside of the old mine office building. The tracks the three of them had left on their way in were still clearly visible, leading to a side entrance. There was only one other set of tracks, slightly older, that came out of the main entrance, wavered halfway around the building and meandered back. Whoever had made them had been more interested in finding a place to stand out of the wind than in looking for trouble.

"Steve, James," said Natasha over the comm, "I have a revised time estimate. Fifteen hours, starting from now, to get him thawed and awake."

"Copy," said Steve.

"Copy," said James. "HYDRA's reporting they have 100 percent of the device."

"Steve, take over monitoring the security screens," Natasha said. "James, meet me at the holding cell. Time to get some intel."

Steve held his peace. Natasha was their expert in interrogation. She and Hawkeye had both told him, emphatically and repeatedly, that they did not use torture. James… well, hopefully James would follow her lead. He tried hard not to think about the possibilities that might be available in the lab that had been used to resurrect, and possibly brainwash, Agent Coulson.

He watched the security feed for a while. The peculiar greyish infrared pictures showed the ghost town empty, not even a breath of wind stirring the snow-crusted weeds. He shivered.

He looked back at the other monitor just in time to see Hawkeye dash across an empty stretch of pavement, stumble, and go down.

The third red X appeared at the bottom of the screen.

* * *

Thanks again to Ael_tRlailiiu for beta!


	29. Chapter 29

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter 29_

Clint had just gotten settled into his new position when he saw himself get shot.

He'd set his bow aside for a rifle. He was lying on his stomach, sighting through a barely-open window on the eighteenth floor, when he saw the other him dash across a gap in the defensive line, heading for—well, it was hard to say. At any rate, he had a strange feeling of dislocation when the dark-clad, spiky-haired figure jerked, stumbled, and fell, his momentum carrying him behind a large concrete planter.

There were triumphant shouts from the HYDRA line.

After a moment of WTF-fueled inertia, the penny dropped and Clint looked back in the direction from which "Hawkeye" had come. Not running towards anything, but drawing fire away from… ah. A tall figure in a helmet and cloak was just getting out of a car. He raised his arms commandingly, and suddenly every HYDRA weapon, yanked from the hands of its owner, was flying towards him. With a contemptuous gesture, he dumped the weapons in a pile against the wall of the Tower.

"About damn time," Clint growled. He stood up, switched the rifle for his bow, and pressed the switch that activated the visual distortion function of his jacket. Then he slid the window all the way open and fired a grappling arrow to the building across the street, then slid down the line and sprinted towards his double. The HYDRA troops were still trying to cope with being disarmed; they didn't spare him much attention.

"Hey, brighteyes. Welcome to the party. Where're you hit?" Clint asked.

His own face looked up at him, grinned, and blinked yellow eyes. "In the butt, ignominiously enough," the figure said, and shifted with a soft rustle into a slighter form. Her hair was dark red, her pleasant curves covered in glossy blue scales and not much else.

"Be glad to bandage that for you," Clint said with a suggestive eyebrow-waggle.

"I got it, thanks," said Mystique, and Clint heard the faint, slithery sound as she rearranged skin and muscle to seal the wound. "Got a bead on Schmidt?"

"Not yet," he said, "But I know what they're after, and they've pretty much got all of it, so I expect him any minute."

His old-school headset crackled. "Hawkeye," said Stark's voice, weak and breathy. "Little help here."

"On my way," said Clint, and to Mystique, "Cover me?"

"Glad to," she said, and began taking pot-shots at any HYDRA operative she could see. The unarmed men fell back, looking for deeper cover.

Clint dodged, skidded and vaulted over and around various wrecked cars and debris piles until he got to the feebly wriggling dark-grey blob that was Stark. He touched it, cautiously, with one fingertip. It felt tough, slightly elastic, and slightly tacky, but it didn't cling to his skin. He drew his knife and tried to cut the stuff; it was like trying to scratch glass with a toothpick.

"Roll me over," Stark gasped on the comm. "Off my right side."

Clint put his shoulder to the vaguely human-shaped mass and pushed. Stark plus armor plus whatever this was was heavy as hell, but by rocking repeatedly he managed to tip him over. A sharp point of metal jabbed outward through the thick glossy membrane, letting in air; the coating loosened perceptibly. Clint grabbed the cut edge and pulled hard. The gap widened slightly; more of the slender blade appeared, and it sliced a long slit in the stuff. Stark's right arm emerged, then his head, as if he were crawling out of a wet sleeping bag.

"Helmet," he said over the comm, breathing heavily. Clint found the latches at the sides of Stark's neck and the visor popped up.

"Thanks," said Stark.

"Lend me that," said Clint. "I'll see what I can do for Banner."

Stark handed the knife over, a beautiful damascened blade with red-and-gold enamel work on the hilt. "Don't lose it," he said.

"No worries," said Clint, and took off.

The tarplike covering around the Hulk had wrinkled and puckered as he'd shrunk back to human size. Clint grabbed a fold of it and carefully inserted the tip of the knife through the material. It opened up readily. In a few seconds there was a substantial gap, and he was able to peel the stuff back, let some air in. He wrestled with the covering until he could get it off Banner's head and face. He checked vitals; weak pulse, no breathing. Clint hauled Banner over onto his back, tilted his chin to open his airway and gave him two quick rescue breaths. Banner coughed, choked and retched, then opened his eyes. It took a few seconds for him to focus.

"Thanks," he said, his voice rough and slightly unsteady.

"No problem," said Clint. "Magneto and Mystique are here. Magneto's just disarmed the HYDRA guys. No sign of Schmidt yet, but I think they've pretty much collected all the parts. I expect he'll be—"

There was an all-too-familiar sound of repulsors in the sky.

"Son of a bitch stole the fucking Quinjet," said Clint. He stood up, whistled loudly and waved to get Magneto's attention, and pointed to the roof.

"Schmidt," he shouted.

Magneto smiled, and as the jet hovered over the landing pad he raised his arms.

From the roof behind him, a spinning net of dark fibers dropped and wrapped him up just as the Quinjet rocked drunkenly, then righted itself.

The net around Magneto tightened, the strands flattening and spreading into a smooth sheet.

"Erik!" screamed Mystique, and ran to him as he collapsed, writhing and struggling. Sharp points protruded from under the membrane as Magneto reshaped his helmet into spikes, but they couldn't penetrate. Mystique was scrabbling at the covering, her fingers shaped into claws, trying to get a grip on it, when Clint dropped to his knees beside her. "I got this," he said. "Cover us." Again, the blade made short work of the tough membrane, and Magneto quickly had an arm free, then his head, and then, with Mystique's help, he was out.

He glanced up at the building from which the net had been dropped, and made an abrupt throwing gesture with one arm. A cloud of metal fragments rose from the ground and shot upwards, too fast to follow. There were screams from the roof.

From the roof of the Tower, there was a crunch as the Quinjet landed hard, then a crackle and a wash of blue light as someone opened up with a Phase Two rifle. The first shot missed, splashing off the street only about a meter to their right; before the second was fired, Magneto had shaped a car into a curved shell of metal. Clint and Mystique crouched behind it with him.

"If you can get Stark out of his armor, he can get into the Tower and give us a hand," Clint suggested.

Magneto glanced at Mystique. She shrugged.

"Very well." Magneto gestured, and Clint heard the clink and clatter as each individual piece of armor unlatched and dropped away. Stark rolled to his feet and sprinted for the Tower.

A roar announced that Banner, or rather his alter ego, was back in action. A chunk of rubble about the size of a sofa narrowly missed the Quinjet's right wing where it overhung the edge of the roof; whoever had the Phase Two began dividing his attention between Magneto's impromptu shelter and the Hulk.

Clint looked over at Magneto. "Do you have to have line of sight?" he asked.

"Not always," the mutant said. "But for something this large, at this extreme a range, yes."

Clint pulled out an arrow and nocked it. "Explosive head," he said. "Shooting straight up, the top of the tower's past my maximum range. But with a little boost…."

Magneto smiled grimly. "How many can you put in the air at once?" he asked.

Clint grinned. "Four."

"How many would it take to disable an engine?"

"Two or three."

Magneto nodded. "Go ahead. Three to start with."

Clint smiled and complied. The arrows soared up, one after another; slowed, then speeded up again and abruptly arced inward towards the Quinjet. The explosions made a sharp triple stutter. Black smoke plumed upward.

The Phase Two rifle returned fire, concentrating solely on their position. Bolt after bolt struck their improvised shield and it began to smolder and glow.

The Hulk, maybe feeling a little left out, took a run at the Tower, jumped thirty feet straight up, and began scrambling up the wall, digging finger-and-toeholds as he went. The HYDRA marksman tried to target him but was apparently unable to aim straight down; the shots went high and hit the far side of the street.

Magneto took the opportunity to make four more car-cabanas, in a line between their current position and the Tower entrance. Shots began spattering off their current shelter again; it started melting around the edges.

"You go first," said Magneto. "Tell your friends not to shoot us."

Clint nodded, collapsed his bow, and got ready to sprint to the next shelter in line. "Keep your head down, Red," he said to Mystique, then dashed to the next shelter, then the next and the next. When he was within range of the SHIELD and Stark troops, he yelled, "Friendly!" and waited for them to acknowledge before dashing to the last and closest shelter, and then under the entrance awning. Magneto and Mystique followed a few steps behind him. Energy bolts followed them, but all hit either the shelters or the pavement.

"Stark?" said Clint on his comm. "Any news?"

"Heading for the roof," Stark said breathlessly. "They disabled the fucking elevators. I fixed the south one."

"We're coming in on your six," said Clint.

"Roger that."

There was a roar, the sound of Phase Two fire, and then a crash that shook the ground. Clint, closely followed by Magneto and Mystique, dashed into the lobby and then into the south elevator.

They lost radio contact while in the elevator, but as soon as the doors opened, Stark was saying "—only lost one engine, I think they're making a break for it—"

Through the penthouse windows Clint saw the Quinjet lurch off the ground, drop over the edge of the landing pad and weave erratically through the skyscrapers, gaining speed but staying low, putting buildings between itself and the Tower to thwart Magneto's attempts to focus on it. It was already out of arrow range by the time he got out to the landing pad.

"Shit," Clint said in disgust. "What do we have to chase them with?"

"Not much," said Stark. "War Machine's in DC. None of the suits here is operational. SHIELD's scrambling fighters but satellite tracking's down; we'll have to rely on ground radar, and the Quinjet's got pretty good stealth capability."

"Well, we at least have a good shot at guessing where he's going. Damn, I wish we had comms with the rest of the team."

Down below, the SHIELD forces were rounding up the disarmed HYDRA troops. Some had fled, some presumably had crunched down on their suicide pills—there were a good many bodies lying around—but some were standing still with their hands behind their heads, waiting.

Banner, looking hung-over and wearing only the super-stretchy Hulk-proof bike shorts that Stark had designed for him, wandered in off the elevator. Clint took a moment to introduce everyone.

"Magneto, Mystique, Tony Stark, Bruce Banner," he rattled off. "Oh. Here's your knife back," he said to Stark, and handed it to him.

"Thanks," said Stark. He grimaced. "Sheath's down on the street somewhere with the armor."

"Allow me," said Magneto, with a flourish, and the armor sailed up and settled, still disassembled but arranged neatly in order, lying on its back on the landing pad like an empty cicada shell.

"Thanks," said Stark again, somewhat suspiciously.

"In return, may I have a look at that blade?" Magneto asked. Stark reluctantly handed it over, hilt-first.

"Beautiful," murmured the mutant, but he had his eyes nearly closed, the blade resting lightly on the upturned palms of both hands. "Not… local work."

"No. It came from Asgard," said Stark. "It was a gift."

"A useful one," said Magneto. He handed the knife back to Stark, then glanced up at Clint. "I'm in your debt," he said. "I'd like to join your pursuit. Schmidt and I have an old, old grudge to settle."

"Only one of us has an older one," said Clint. "Glad to have your help. Don't suppose you have a jet handy."

Magneto smiled. "Not at the moment. But I do have access to a Sikorsky S-97 Raider. A prototype. Holds six, plus pilot and copilot."

Clint smiled back. "Beautiful." He glanced at Mystique. "I'm guessing you can fly it?"

She grinned. "In my sleep."

Clint looked at Stark and Banner. "Road trip?"

* * *

Thanks again to Ael_tRlailiiu for the beta; all remaining adverbs are exclusively my fault!


	30. Chapter 30

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Thirty_

"Natasha. Hawkeye's down," Steve said, his eyes locked on the monitor. Barely a second later the picture slewed wildly, then went dark.

He tried to think of that as a positive development, as showing that HYDRA wasn't getting it all their own way. Maybe SHIELD reinforcements had arrived at the Tower. Maybe Hawkeye, Iron Man and the Hulk were already getting help.

Or maybe the HYDRA forces had grabbed the gate device, abandoned the camera, and were headed here at top speed.

Natasha stepped into the room. "Report," she said.

Steve gestured at the monitor. "Picture went wild and then went blank, right after I called you," he said. "Like they dropped the camera. No, more like they threw the camera. Hawkeye was running and then he stumbled and fell. We lost the picture right after that, so I couldn't tell if he was still moving or see if there was blood on him. Nothing further on Iron Man or the Hulk, either."

Natasha thought for a moment. "There's nothing I can do to speed up the process of reviving Coulson," she said. "We either abandon him, or we're stuck here for the duration. I can try to get information from the prisoner on troop numbers, maybe where they're coming from. But honestly, I don't think we have time for a thorough interrogation, and unreliable intel's worse than none."

"Let me go down and man the shortwave," said Steve. "If they've got the device, and if all the Avengers are down, they're probably heading back here. Surely they'll contact the base with an ETA."

Natasha nodded. "Go ahead. This part of the revival process is all automated. James and I will see what we can do in terms of spotting incoming traffic. Maybe we can relocate the security cameras higher and further out."

Steve nodded. He headed down to the lower level, sat at the radio console and scanned slowly through the frequencies.

There wasn't much. Some amateurs trying to reach anyone who was listening; what sounded like police, military, or maritime traffic in Norwegian or maybe Danish. And, incongruously, barely audible through the static: music. Artificial-sounding, depthless, like music on a cellphone or handheld game. But the tunes… they were familiar, short scraps of songs… "Pepsi-Cola hits the spot, ten whole ounces, that's a lot…."

Jesus Christ. Radio jingles from the '40s. He grabbed the mike. What was that obnoxious, noisy tune….

He keyed the mike and whistled "Shoot to Thrill" into it, and held his breath.

"You've expanded your musical horizons," said a voice. Even through the hiss of static, it sounded amused.

"You too," said Steve. "We should get together. Got a nice trio here."

"… playing solo right now… rest of the band's on tour with a couple guest artists. Might be coming your way, if you're where I think you are." The voice was getting clearer; maybe the signal was being boosted.

"We got a good tip about off-beat vacation destinations."

"You need to cut your vacation short," said Stark, coming in clearly now. "It's about to get crowded."

"Nope. Can't do it," said Steve. "There's someone here we can't leave. Got a bad cold. Nice guy. Used to have a lot of little pictures of me, before they got messed up."

He heard Stark's sharp intake of breath.

"That's… remarkable," Stark said after a while.

"Isn't it?" said Steve. "So, we're expecting company?"

"Lots," said Stark. "Soon. Maybe three or four hours."

"Well. That's a problem. We're not set up to entertain many guests."

"The band'll get there later, but it'll take a while."

"Gotcha. We'll do our best. Did they get what they came for?"

"Yeah. They did."

"Sorry to hear that. How's your butler?"

"Been under the weather, but he'll be okay."

"Say hi to everyone for us."

"Working on it," said Stark.

The tinny tunes came back, then slowly faded out.

"Natasha," said Steve on his own comm, "I just heard from Tony. They're all alive, the Tower's okay, but HYDRA's got the gate device and they're on their way here. Three or four hours, he said. Hawkeye and Dr. Banner, and I think some others, are some time behind them."

"On our way," Natasha said.

When the other two came in, Steve swiveled his chair around to face them, but kept the headset on. "What's the plan?" he asked.

"James," said Natasha, "take the jet and get out."

James smiled and shook his head.

"This isn't your fight," said Natasha.

"Do you know how long it's been since I got to pick my own fights?" said James, still smiling.

Natasha sighed. "Steve, I know better than to ask you," she said.

"How about you?" he asked. "You can fly the jet."

"No," she said.

"Just out of curiosity," said James, "who is this Coulson to you?"

Natasha paused for a moment. "Irrelevant," she said. "The point is, if HYDRA has him, they have SHIELD. And I'm not letting that happen."

"We could kill him," James said.

"No," said Steve.

"I will," said Natasha, "before I'll leave him to HYDRA."

"You can't mean that," said Steve.

"Want to bet?" she said, meeting his eyes, her gaze cool and level and steady.

"We're not his only chance," Steve insisted. "The rest of the team's still in the game. Even if we have to abandon this position—"

"I won't hand him over," said Natasha.

"For his sake? Or because you're scared of what he could do for them?"

"Both."

"Well. Looks like us three against HYDRA, then," said James cheerfully. "Like old times."

"Us four," said Natasha. "If we can wake Coulson up, and if his mind is still intact, he's worth as much as any of us."

"Hm. Noted," said James. "But we'll still have to hold them off for, what, eleven or twelve hours until he's awake." He pondered. "We don't have much to work with. The HYDRA weapons are useless till they're recharged," he said. "The guards just had conventional sidearms and rifles. I could rig the liquid nitrogen tanks to explode. Not enough to bring down the building, but they'll chew up one room pretty thoroughly."

"What kind of armament does the Harrier have?" Steve asked.

"One 30mm cannon, 300 rounds, and two Sidewinder missiles," said Natasha.

"That would even the odds considerably," Steve mused. "Think we can move one of the liquid nitrogen tanks out to the foot of the stairs? If HYDRA doesn't know about the entrance on the lowest level—and it seems like they don't—we can bottleneck them in the stairwell and then blow it up, and still leave ourselves an escape route."

"Maybe," said James. "Be a bitch to maneuver around the corners, but you and I together might manage. Let me take a look, do some measuring and figuring. We've got time for that, at least."

"We don't have enough fuel to do much patrolling in the Harrier, not if we're going to have any left for fighting," said Natasha. "But we could do one quick recon and see if anything shows up on radar."

"If they're bringing in troops in any numbers," said Steve, "they're going to have to land somewhere else. This runway's too short for anything but a copter or an STOL, and those aren't big enough to carry an invasion force."

"Have to be Svalbard," said James. "It's about 50 kilometers from here as the crow flies, but a lot longer by land. Or they could come by sea, but that would take even longer."

"That's going to add a couple of hours to Tony's estimate," said Steve. "Not nearly enough, but it's what we have."

The radio crackled to life. "Valkyrie One to Asgard Base. Come in."

James reached over and grabbed the headset from Steve, put it on himself. "Hail HYDRA," he said.

"Mission accomplished. ETA five hours eighteen minutes. Any report from Vanguards One and Two?"

"Negative," said James.

"Inform us as soon as you receive their report. Valkyrie One out."

"Hail HYDRA," James said again. "Asgard Base out." He switched off the mike and looked over at Steve.

"Well," he said, "guess I'd better get cracking on that liquid nitrogen."

* * *

Note: Although liquid nitrogen is not flammable, under the right conditions a sealed container of it can explode. Try an internet search for "Texas A&M liquid nitrogen explosion".

Thanks to Ael_tRlailiiu for beta yet again; my apologies for the late update and the short "lite" chapter. More to come.


	31. Chapter 31

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Thirty-one_

Clint took a deep breath and let it out. The tension in his shoulders gradually eased, and he leaned back in his seat. Once again he was experiencing the unearthly peace of being in a space without Tony Stark. Magneto was enough of a pain in his ass; put him and Stark together and they were like two cats in a sack.

He'd had to step between them, finally. Stark had done his usual poke-it-with-a-stick thing and asked Magneto, "So. You turning over a new leaf? Thought you didn't soil yourself with us mere mortals."

"Those," Magneto said, gesturing down at the SHIELD troops and their HYDRA captives, "are beneath my notice. As for the three of you," and he smiled, an expression fully as irritating and superior as Stark's own, "is 'human' really the first word that comes to mind for any of you?"

Banner had actually flinched at that, and Stark had seen it. His expression had changed and darkened, and Clint had had to get in Stark's face and put a hand on the arc reactor—which didn't help, Stark had that 'I don't give a shit, I'll die with snark on my lips' look—but when Clint said "Stark. Magnetic fields. Jarvis," Stark actually heard him, and backed down.

In the end, Stark had chosen to stay at the Tower and work on restoring some form of communication with SHIELD and the rest of the team. Banner, after a short pause, elected to come on the chopper. That gave Clint some measure of relief; he could take Raven on, if he had to, but there wasn't much he could do against Magneto with his current armament, and the two of them together definitely had him outnumbered. The Hulk, however, tipped the balance back their way. And Banner's brains were as great an asset as the Other Guy's brawn.

They could work together long enough to take out Schmidt, no problem (if they could catch him before he opened a gate to Asgard). It was what happened afterwards that had him worried. Loki's scepter would be in the vicinity; no way Magneto would let that go to waste, and no way SHIELD or the Avengers would let him walk off with it.

Well. One battle at a time.

The chopper only had about a 600-kilometer range; but given the condition the Quinjet had been in, Schmidt would have to land for repairs (or change vehicles) long before that.

About an hour and a half into their flight, Mystique spoke up from the pilot's seat. "I've got Stark on the radio," she said. "You want to talk to him, Barton?"

"Yeah, thanks," said Clint. He traded seats with Magneto and slipped the headset on. "Stark?"

"What ho, Bard the Bowman," said Stark. "I've heard from Cap. They're onsite, and they're okay, and they found a surprise waiting for them."

"Do tell, on this totally not secure radio frequency."

"I laugh in the face of surveillance. World's foremost collector of Cap memorabilia is there in person. On ice."

"Jesus H. fucking Christ," said Clint.

"Yeah. So they're sitting tight."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. Oh, and I got a tip on our friends in the crippled aircraft. They landed at Bangor International about half an hour ago, and they stole a cargo 737 and took off with full tanks. Still working on tracking, but it looks like they're headed right where we figured. I've got a Stark corporate jet headed for Gander; you can take it from there and make up some of your lost time. You'll still end up a few hours behind them."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Still working on communications; we should all be able to talk to each other before you get there. Keep your phone on."

"Will do." Clint signed off, gave Magneto his seat and headset back and headed back to talk to Banner.

"Mixed news, doc," he said. "Schmidt's got a jet now with full fuel tanks. Stark's staging a jet for us in Newfoundland, but we won't be able to catch up to them before they land. Cap, Tasha and the Soldier are on the ground and OK, but they can't leave the base, because…." he broke off, unable to keep his voice steady.

"What is it?" asked Banner. He shifted slightly in his seat, angling in as if to shield Clint from another incoming missile.

"Coulson's there. Alive. Or at least, frozen."

"That's…."

_The best news and the worst news I've heard since 'Loki's out of your head and aliens are invading Manhattan'_,Clint thought. Aloud he said, "Yeah."

They flew on. They made two brief refueling stops (Clint took note of their locations; SHIELD would want to know, assuming he survived this mission, though Magneto would probably relocate the bases). At Gander, they scrambled quickly into Stark's sleek little jet, and Clint took the controls, ran through the preflight, and took off, taking stock of the jet's hidden armament and running scenarios through his head.

_If Cap and Tasha are still holding the base, we can draw some of the fire away from them while Magneto and Mystique go after Schmidt. If they've been overrun…_

_If they've been overrun…_

_If they've been overrun, they're dead. And Coulson's dead. Again. _

He resolutely turned his mind away from that possibility and began briefing Magneto and Mystique on the range and effects of Loki's scepter.

"The power supply's not unlimited," he finished. "It has to recharge for a few seconds after each blast, and he'll be sparing with it, because he needs it to activate the Gate and power his strike team's weapons. But basically, it's the equivalent of a Phase Two rifle. One hit and you're toast."

"How accurate is his aim at long range?" Magneto asked.

"I don't know. Loki's wasn't great. Schmidt hasn't had as much time to practice, and he's not as strong as Loki; the scepter's pretty heavy. Loki could change its size and shape, but I doubt Schmidt can. Still, I wouldn't count on him missing by much. Also—I should tell you, just in case, that Loki could use the scepter to do mind-control; for that, he has to touch you with it. Again, I doubt Schmidt can do that, but it would be safer not to give him the opportunity."

"And it's made of metal, yes?"

"The head, except for the stone. The shaft is a combination of metal and wood. Not Earth metal though; it was made in Asgard. Like Stark's dagger."

Magneto nodded. "I should still be able to affect it, though it may require more effort than normal." He pondered for a moment. "Are we going to have any… jurisdictional disputes here, over Schmidt?"

"None," said Clint. "He's all yours. As long as he's stopped, we don't care who takes him out. Or how." He resolutely closed his mouth before he could say anything about the scepter.

Magneto withdrew to a seat in the passenger area. Mystique followed, after nodding to Banner to swap places with her. Banner settled into the copilot seat.

"Which one of us will do you the most good?" Banner asked quietly.

"It depends on whether we have a way into the base," said Clint. "If we do, then you go in and help Cap and Tasha with Coulson. If not, we'll need the Other Guy to get us in." He glanced over at Banner. "You can take a rest if you want. We still have a couple hours."

"What about the Winter Soldier?" Banner asked.

"If he's still there, I think we can safely count him as an ally, for this fight," said Clint. "If not, I think we can count on his having cleared out. But whether he's still there or not, if we win the fight with HYDRA, that base and those weapons, and especially Coulson, are going to be pretty damn tempting targets. Enough that he could either go back to a hero's welcome in Russia, or set up on his own. I'm not turning my back on him if I can help it."

"The problem with that being, you don't know when your back is to him if you don't know where he is," said Banner.

"Exactly."

* * *

Thanks, everyone, for your patience with my holiday-delayed updates!

Beta thanks as always to Ael_tRlailiiu.

I originally wrote that putting Stark and Magneto together was like a Talking Carl Fight. Took that out because it was too obscure and too silly, but you can Google it.


	32. Chapter 32

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Thirty-two_

Steve frowned down at his left hand. The middle two fingers were still swollen and discolored; he'd crushed them both in the process of wrestling the liquid nitrogen tank into the stairwell, but they'd gotten it done at last, and he'd splinted the fingers in the hopes that they'd heal straight enough to be usable. James was manning the radio; Natasha had gone out to the Harrier to warm it up and take it through the pre-flight.

They'd heard from the HYDRA troop carriers, now en route from Svalbard with a complement of three hundred twenty soldiers. Sixty of them had charged Phase Two weapons; they were to enter Asgard under Schmidt's command and seize the Tesseract. The rest would take uncharged weapons from the base and wait for the invasion force to return. Then, once their weapons were charged, they'd be sent out in squads to strike at targets throughout Europe, as more waves of troops and weapons were moved in behind them.

Schmidt himself was presumably still on schedule, about an hour out from Svalbard by now, with the gate device, the scepter, and a squad of Phase-Two-equipped soldiers.

James planned take the Harrier and strike the troop convoy first, taking out or disabling as many vehicles as possible while they were still at a fair distance from the base, then loop back and engage Schmidt's jet before it could land at Svalbard. Natasha would be needed to supervise the next stage of Coulson's revival, and to guard the cryogenic chamber until the process was complete. That left Steve to defend the building, aided by the nitrogen-tank boobytrap and James (assuming he survived the air assault). Hawkeye, the Hulk, and their new allies, if they managed to arrive in time, could help with cleanup.

"Anything new?" Steve asked as he came into the guardroom.

James shook his head. "Nothing. No further HYDRA communications, nothing from Stark. Even the local traffic's been shut down. Maybe Schmidt's doing, to keep anyone from interfering."

"Harrier's ready, James," said Natasha over the comms. "I need to get back down to the lab."

"On my way," said James. He took the shortwave headset off and passed it over to Steve. "Have fun, Rogers," he said with a one-sided smile.

"It'll be a new experience," said Steve. "Normally I'm the one on the outside trying to bust in. Never had to play defense before."

"Keep the home fires burning," said James, and mockingly saluted him.

Steve saluted back, not mockingly at all. "Give 'em hell, brother," he said quietly.

He settled into the chair, brought up the video from the panoramic cameras Natasha had relocated to the top of the peak that gave Pyramiden its name. It was a bright, clear morning with little wind, but there was a dark line low on the western horizon that might mean trouble later.

Still nothing on the radio. Natasha checked in with him, reported that Coulson's revival was still proceeding as it should. James reported he was ready for takeoff. Steve acknowledged.

There was silence for a while. Nothing yet on the monitors.

"I've got 'em," James reported. "Six troop transports. I'm going to save one Sidewinder for Schmidt's jet, but I think I can take out at least two of these with the other one."

"Copy," said Steve.

There was a muffled explosion.

"James?"

"I'm okay," said James. "Took just the edge of an energy blast. Nice to get confirmation I'm shooting at the right guys."

There was a much louder explosion.

"Two down, four to go," said James. "Coming around again with the cannon."

Steve waited, and then heard the baritone snarl of the 30mm cannon, half-second bursts, two, three, four.

"Stopped two, damaged one, missed one—" James began, and then there was a loud boom.

"I'm hit," James said calmly, as if reporting that it had started to rain. "Going to try to get out of range, get enough altitude to eject and use the chute."

The radio crackled and went silent.

"James?" called Steve. No answer.

"James? Bucky? Come in!"

Silence.

_Fire and shrapnel,_ thought Steve with a shiver, _or ice and the dark._

He unstrapped the tape from his fingers and flexed them. Good enough to hold the shield, or throw it.

On the monitor, he could just make out the distant plumes of smoke drifting upward in the still, bright sky.

He switched off the shortwave, ignoring the insistent gabble of the HYDRA convoy reporting the attack and counterstrike, settled his shield on his arm, checked his pistol. "Natasha," he said, "I'm going out. Looks like at least one truckload will make it through. I'll thin them out as much as I can before they get here. If I can't stay ahead of them I'll try to give you enough warning to trigger the nitrogen canister when it'll do the most damage."

"Copy," she said. "Four hours forty minutes yet to go on the revival, and a lot of hands-on involved at this stage. If you can't hold them, I'll defend this position as long as I can."

Steve chose a rifle from the guards' weapons locker, and a pouch full of ammo. He helped himself to a white jumpsuit; it would make him a slightly less blatant target, and the extra warmth might be welcome, too.

Before long, the undamaged transport truck appeared on the monitor. It was heavily laden, probably filled to capacity; say, sixty men inside. There were another dozen hanging on to the outside. He grabbed his weapons and headed out to take up his position.

He found a spot on a low roof, overlooking the road at the outskirts of the settlement, and knocked a chunk out of the retaining wall to create a rifle slit he could aim through. As the truck came in range, he was able to pick off four of the men clinging to the outside of it. Despite the uneven numbers, he felt sick, shooting at completely defenseless men. He wondered if it ever bothered James.

As soon as his first victims fell, the truck swerved into the shelter of a building and troops piled out of it, fanned out and began shooting in his general direction. It took them a while to work out his location. Even once they spotted him, they couldn't get a good shot at him even with Phase Two weapons. By the time they'd gotten organized enough to try to flank him, he'd taken out another dozen, but then he had to fall back lest they get past him. He ran for the trapdoor down into the building, doubled over, his shield slung on his back for a little extra protection.

He dove out a second-floor window, managed to hit one more by sheer luck with a hasty pistol shot, then knocked down two with his shield in quick succession and led them on a roundabout chase, away from the mine office building, away from Natasha and Coulson and their carefully-arranged boobytrap. They weren't idiots, though, and after only a few minutes they split up, one group heading to the mine office and the other continuing to harass him. He was barely able to get back in front of the larger group before they reached their base.

After that it was retreat, retreat, firing whenever he got the chance. Once he reached the stairwell he had the advantage temporarily; they couldn't come at him more than two at a time and in the tight quarters he could block their shots with his shield. He managed to put a few more of them down as he retreated down the stairs, slowly until the next-to-last turn, then swarming down the last two flights as quickly as he could, squeezing past their improvised bomb, triggering its cobbled-together ignition device, slamming and bolting the door behind him and then waiting, waiting….

There was a shout of "get back, it's a bomb!" just before the explosion. The door was blown off its hinges and through the opposite wall of the corridor, but the damage on the other side was far more severe. Steve waited a few moments for the ventilation system to make inroads on the dust, and checked the stairwell. It was a heap of rubble, twisted bits of metal, and chunks of bloody meat and bone. No survivors.

He checked in with Natasha—still working on Coulson, no damage to the lab—then took the hidden tunnel back up to the surface and descended by the main stairs to the middle level where the guardroom was. He checked the camera feed. A second troop carrier was making its way slowly down the road, obviously damaged but still mobile.

"More company on the way," he told Natasha.

"Copy," she said.

The second batch of troops was smaller and warier. One group managed to pin him down in a gap between two buildings, sheltered by a partially-demolished wall, as the other group headed into the building.

"Natasha, incoming!" he said and then had to duck behind his shield again.

"On it," she said. "The stairwell's a mess. They can't get through very fast. I can hold them." And she punctuated this claim with a pistol shot.

And for a long time afterwards, as the wind picked up and heavy clouds gradually climbed the thin slice of the western sky he could see from his position, it was all he could do to stay alive. They couldn't advance without getting picked off; he couldn't retreat without risking a hit from an energy bolt.

Eventually, he ran out of ammunition for the rifle. The pistol was less effective at keeping his opponents back, and they gradually advanced, one at a time, ducking from one bit of cover to the next. Two of them bracketed him so that he could no longer raise his head to take aim; he kept firing blind, but it wasn't enough to keep them off. A third man ran forward and Steve, shield raised, dashed out to meet him. The man fired; Steve bounced the bolt off his shield to hit one of the two who'd had him pinned down, then met the running man with a powerful shield-bash that knocked him off his feet. Steve had his weapon an instant later, and a few minutes after that, two more HYDRA gunmen were down and Steve was out of the trap. The remaining troops were far more cautious. They regrouped and then came on again, spread out over a wider field to make it harder for him to defend himself.

It was growing harder to pay attention to the battle he was in and the battle he could hear Natasha fighting over the comm. He threw his shield again, knocking one HYDRA soldier out and disarming another, then shot the one he'd disarmed and fired a few more bolts just to encourage the rest to keep their heads down. On his headset he heard sporadic pistol shots, the hum of machinery, and a new sound: deep, racking coughs.

"Stay down," said Natasha's voice over the comm. "Just focus on breathing." Three more pistol shots.

Here outside, the HYDRA troops appeared to be gathering themselves for a charge. Steve was losing track of time. He wished fervently for a couple of grenades. Apparently HYDRA felt they weren't worth fooling with, in comparison to the energy weapons. He tossed his shield again in a wide boomerang-like arc, just to give himself time to reload the pistol.

Inside: "Do you know who I am?" said Natasha, and a weak voice off-mike—Coulson's voice—replied, "No." Then more coughing, another shot, and a muffled grunt.

_She's hit._

They rushed him then, four of them, and it was all he could do to block their comrades' covering fire before they were on him. It got easier for a while, because they wouldn't shoot at each other, so he was free to take them on hand-to-hand without worrying about gunfire or Phase Two blasts. By the time he had them all down and could turn his attention back to the comm feed, Natasha's breathing was growing short and rapid.

"Take this," she was saying. "Wait. Palm lock." A pause. "There. Yours now." More breathing, almost panting. "Look. Someone shows you. A card like this. Is a friendly. Steve, you copy?"

"Copy," said Steve, and in his head, _Natasha. Natasha._

"Exit," she said, two or three breaths now after each short phrase, "concealed panel. In corridor. Out this door. Left. Left again. Five meters ahead. On left. Got it?"

"Yes," said Coulson's voice, sounding stronger.

"Take the earpiece," gasped Natasha. "Go." There was a rustling sound, then a rapid barrage of gunfire, and then Steve had to duck and run as a new Phase Two sniper got into position and started firing at his exposed flank.

_Two of us down. One to go, or is it two?_

The wind had continued to pick up and now, abruptly, it was as if someone had switched off the lights. Steve glanced up to see a black line of clouds, straight as a ruler, sweep overhead, dimming the sun almost to invisibility, and suddenly the air was full of snow and he was practically blind. He had an instant's panicked thought for Barton and Banner—were they still in the air?—and then a wild shot from a Phase Two weapon struck the wall behind him. He dropped to the ground and began crawling in the direction he thought it had come from.

He almost got lost just crawling across the street; when he ran up against the wall it wasn't at the angle he'd expected. He stayed put for a moment, eyes tightly shut, summoning up the picture of the surrounding buildings as if he were about to draw the scene, until he had their relative positions firmly in mind. No further weapons fire, no moving bodies that he could see. He got to his feet and followed the wall to its end, then jogged across the intersection to the next building. He might as well seek shelter until visibility improved. Maybe the weather would take out a few more of his opponents.

The mine office building looked empty. He shut the door behind him as quietly as he could (but surely anyone in here would have heard the howl of the wind when the door had opened). He did a quick sweep of the ground floor but came up empty. He went to the concealed panel that led to the tunnel, opened it, switched on his flashlight.

Coulson's face, and his pistol, jumped into view. Steve froze.

"Let me see your hands," said Coulson. Steve slowly set the flashlight on the floor, pointing upward, and showed both palms, fingers spread.

"I'm on your side," Steve said, "and I can show you a token, if you'll let me get to it."

"Slowly," Coulson said, pistol not wavering.

Slowly, using only two fingers, Steve unzipped the jumpsuit and pulled out his wallet. He opened the wallet in slow motion, took out the bloodstained trading card, held it up. Coulson nodded and put away the pistol.

"What's the situation outside?" he asked.

"There are at least a couple dozen HYDRA troops outside, armed with a mixture of energy rifles and conventional weapons, but visibility's near zero. There may be more coming on foot. An additional force is coming from Svalbard, maybe ten or twelve troops led by the Red Skull. He has a more powerful weapon, and he's planning to open a gate to Asgard—to another world, to gain a basically limitless energy source. We have allies somewhere en route, but if they hadn't landed yet they'll have been forced down by the storm. So right now there's just you and me."

Coulson absorbed this without comment. After a short silence he said, "I'll need your help," and jerked his head back down the corridor. Steve picked up his light and followed.

Around the first turn, Natasha lay on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. She was unconscious, but breathing steadily.

"She had a sucking chest wound," Coulson said. "I stopped the bleeding and decompressed her. If we can get medical assistance within the next few hours, she should make it."

"Thank you," said Steve.

"She took the bullet for me," said Coulson. "Least I could do." He looked hard at Steve, eyebrows knit in concentration. "I know you," he said.

"Yes," said Steve.

"No," Coulson said suddenly. "It's just that you look like him. Steven Rogers. Captain America." He frowned. "You look uncannily like him. Are you… did they clone him?"

"No," said Steve. "They found me in the Valkyrie. Under the ice. And they revived me. You were there."

A soft scraping sound came from the upper end of the tunnel. Steve and Coulson looked at each other. Steve doused the light, touched Coulson's arm to signal him to stay back, and crept back around the turn.

A faint outline of light still showed around the access panel. A dark figure was fitting it back in place. Steve silently drew his pistol. "Don't move," he said.

There was a soft laugh. "Should have known you'd beat me here."

Steve flicked on the flashlight. James was grinning over his shoulder at him.

Steve broke into a matching grin. "Son of a bitch," he said.

* * *

Thanks to Ael_tRlailiiu for beta!


	33. Chapter 33

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Thirty-three_

The flight from Gander was uneventful. Clint had settled into piloting, enjoying the smooth responsiveness and elegant layout of Stark's jet. He was beginning to consider the radar image—something ahead of them, looked like pretty substantial cloud cover—when there was a squawk and hiss from the headset, and then Tony Stark's voice said suavely, "Lady and gentlemen, for your convenience, communications have been restored between Stark Tower and your aircraft. Please indulge us for a few moments while we attempt to reach the rest of the team."

"Stark! What's the situation stateside?"

"Cleanup continues at the Tower. Jarvis is back online. We're working on emergency replacements for some of the more critical communications satellites; we have two of the old GOES satellites reactivated, so NASA's getting some usable weather data again. You're catching up to a pretty severe storm front, by the way."

"Yeah, I can see it on radar."

"You may have to delay landing. Pretty strong winds, 60 kph gusting to 80, and heavy snow, at least right at the front edge."

"Crap. Okay, thanks for the warning. Anything on Schmidt?"

"They landed at Svalbard a couple of hours ago. Reports are sketchy; sounds like he shot up the tower. There were a good many casualties. Apparently he stole a vehicle and headed for Pyramiden. Has about a dozen troops with him, and some heavy crates. They're going to have a rough time with the snow. Even if they don't run off the road, they won't be able to move very fast. Once they get there, my best guess is it will take between one and two hours to assemble the Asgardinator. Best guess from the data we have on the scepter is he'll be able to hold the gate open longer than I could with the arc reactor; on the order of a minute or two at a time. If he gets the Tesseract, he can keep the gate open indefinitely, and expand it from the size of a closet to... well, at least as big as the portal the Chitauri came through."

"Yeah. Not planning on letting that happen," said Clint. "Any luck reaching the rest of the team?"

"I made contact via shortwave this morning, before any HYDRA troops reached them. They were all okay at that point, but I haven't been able to raise them since. They may be too busy, or the radio may have been damaged."

"Keep trying. How about SHIELD?"

"Fury's been in touch. They have the Helicarrier secured, and they're en route to Svalbard as fast as they can get there. Once the weather clears, they can send in reinforcements or extract the team, or both. But it'll be a while. I'm still working on reinstating headset comms. I'll keep you posted."

"Thanks."

Clint looked over as Mystique slid into the copilot seat.

"How long till we land?" she asked.

"Seventy, seventy-five minutes till we get there. But we're coming into a near-blizzard. We may not be able to land right away."

"Hang on," Mystique said, and headed back into the passenger area. Clint glanced over his shoulder to see her conferring with Magneto.

Banner was reading something off his tablet; he glanced up as Mystique passed then returned to his task.

After a few moments, Mystique returned.

"Change of plans," she said. "Bypass the airport and go straight for Pyramiden."

"The runway there's not long enough," Clint said.

"I know," said Mystique. "Trust me. Erik can bring us down safely. We've done it before."

"And you didn't mention this before because...?"

"Because it'll leave him exhausted, and he didn't want to go up against Schmidt in that condition. But if the alternative is being too late, and Schmidt getting what he's after, then the risk becomes acceptable."

"Fair enough," said Clint. "What do I need to do?"

"Basically, go in as if you're going to land on the runway that's there. Pretend it extends another couple thousand feet. Lose as much airspeed as you can without stalling. Erik will use the magnetic field to keep the jet up and slow it down, like brakes on a maglev train. We'll have to be prepared to defend the jet for a while, until he recovers."

"How long is a while?"

"Ten, twelve minutes."

"Shit."

"Defense isn't my best game," Banner spoke up from behind them, "but I'm pretty good at distraction. I can handle it. Drop me just before you land. I'll keep them busy."

Clint sighed. "Okay," he said. "No sense bringing specialists and then arguing with them about their specialty."

The landing was fully as terrifying as he'd anticipated. Magneto was in the copilot's seat, eyes closed, hands up in front of him as if he were walking in the dark, anticipating obstacles. Visibility was near zero, and the jet bucked and shuddered in the gusty wind. One good downdraft and they'd pancake onto the ground. Instrument landings he could handle; bad weather he could handle; even a short runway, within limits, he could handle. But all three, combined with a testy megalomaniac with the power to tie the plane in a knot or tear it in half, made him wish for a nice simple firefight with the Russian mob.

Magneto, eyes still closed, growled "Lower and slower."

"I can't risk a downdraft—" Clint began.

"I can't control the descent until we're close enough to the surface; the magnetic field strength drops off too rapidly. Lower. And slower. Throttle back."

"If we stall—"

"Throttle back until you hear a stall warning," said Magneto. "I thought you were a _skilled_ pilot."

Clint swallowed his retort, throttled back delicately. "Dr. Banner, get ready," he said. "Magneto, get ready for the drag from the open door."

"Ready," said the mutant, scowling. "Landing gear down."

Clint complied, sweating.

"When I give the word," said Magneto, "keep the controls exactly as they are. Once I've taken hold of the jet, the only other thing I need you to do is cut the engines on my mark. Understood?"

"Understood," said Clint. "Dr. Banner?"

"Ready," said Banner, standing by the door. He'd stripped down to compression shorts; his clothes, shoes and glasses were stowed back in his bag.

Clint kept his eyes on the altimeter. "Go," he said at last. Banner yanked open the door and jumped out. Mystique shut it behind him.

"Stall," said the automated voice on the cockpit speaker.

"Hold now!" Magneto snapped, and Clint froze at the yoke. The jet dipped alarmingly, just for a second, and then recovered, as if she'd bounced lightly off the surface of a very forgiving trampoline.

"Throttle back," said Magneto, and Clint complied, ignoring every hour of training he'd ever had that told him he was sending them into a stall that would reduce them to a spinning, flaming mass of twisted metal and bloody paste.

The engines' pitch and volume dropped. The computerized warnings got more frequent and more strident. The jet rocked slightly, cradled in an invisible net that seemed to partially cushion her from the winds.

"Engine shutoff," said Magneto. Clint cut power to the engines entirely and the plane drifted downward; he could barely glimpse the beginning of the runway. They decelerated hard; he felt the seat belt bite into him; his head rocked forward, and then they were down with hardly a jolt.

Magneto dropped his hands and slumped forward in his seat, breathing hard. Mystique came forward, knelt beside him, put a hand on his shoulder.

"Go," she said to Clint. "Hold them off. I'll stay with him, and we'll join you when we can."

Clint was already out of his seat, slinging his quiver and bow on his back and grabbing his rifle. "On it," he said.

The wind and snow were blinding. He was grateful for the protection of his goggles, but they didn't help visibility; the snow spattered across them in huge, wet flakes and he had to keep swiping his sleeve across them to see anything at all. At first, he could hear nothing but the wind, but then a much deeper howl came from his right, back the way they'd come. He shuffled towards it. There wasn't much snow on the ground, and what there was looked like a ghostly conveyor belt as the wind whipped it away behind him. It was profoundly disorienting.

The howling roar came again, and an impact shook the ground under his feet. He could tell he was still on the runway, but he had no sense at all of his surroundings. This was a retired heliport; there should have been buildings not far away, but as far as he could tell he could be in the middle of Antarctica.

There. A blue flash ahead of him. Phase Two fire. Again he heard the Hulk, roaring in anger or pain. Clint walked faster, bent nearly double against the wind, staggering as it dropped off for a moment and then picked up again.

At last a vague shape loomed up in front of him: a truck of some sort. A body flew over it, landed and didn't move. More Phase Two fire; more roaring, and now he could see the outline of the Hulk silhouetted against a burst of blue light. The Hulk writhed and bellowed, thrust a huge hand downward into the runway surface and gouged up a chunk of concrete, and hurled it towards his tormentors.

Clint, now that he had his bearings, jogged forward, took cover behind the truck and methodically began firing at every blue muzzle-flash he could see. He couldn't tell whether he was hitting anyone, but after he'd fired half a dozen shots, a blue bolt struck the runway just short of the truck. Clint jerked back and retreated to the cab of the truck, checked the door handle without standing up from his crouch. It wasn't locked. He opened it and crawled in.

The air outside was still nearly opaque with flying snow; there was a fair chance he hadn't been seen. He searched the cab of the truck. No keys, unfortunately, and no weapons. His goggles had steamed up already; he shoved them up onto his forehead. Through the passenger-side window he could see more blue flashes. He considered using the truck as a roost, but decided it was too easy a target, both for HYDRA and for the Hulk. So he contented himself with opening the window a crack and firing two quick shots, then pulling his goggles back down, ducking back out into the wind and scrambling, crouched low, along the side of the truck and past it. If he could get behind Schmidt's troops...

Another roar, and the dim shape of the Hulk was charging towards him. Clint dropped immediately, hugging the ground. The Hulk passed him by, grabbed two HYDRA troops and smashed them together, then tossed them over his shoulder.

Another, brighter bolt of blue fire lanced through the white air, and Clint froze. The scepter. Loki's scepter.

The bolt struck the Hulk squarely between the shoulder blades.

The Hulk cried out and fell.

And Clint froze. A tall figure was striding towards him, scepter glowing in his hand, dark robe swirling in the snow-clogged wind. Loki's laughter was ringing in his ears and the white world turned blue. Clint's hands were numb on the rifle, his mind blank.

Something struck him, hard, felled him to the ground and covered him like a lead-lined blanket. A hand was over his mouth.

"Stay quiet. Don't move," a voice hissed, and he shuddered and snapped back to himself. Mystique's voice. He couldn't see—

As his panic faded, the disorientation cleared. He was lying on frozen ground, tufts of spiky grass stabbing even through his winter gear, and Mystique was lying on top of him, covered with—no, shaped into—a heavy, ruglike form. He could hear a voice over the wind's howl.

"Leave the beast there. Get the machine set up. Some of you start a search pattern. Find that sniper."

Not Loki. A different voice, harsh, clipped, with a slight German accent. Johann Schmidt, he'd be willing to bet. He put a hand over Mystique's hand, squeezed. She uncovered his mouth.

"I'm good," he breathed. "Thanks."

"They won't see us unless they actually step on us," she whispered back, her voice almost lost in the wind even at this range.

Schmidt continued barking out orders, some to the men around him and some, apparently, over comms. _Great, _thought Clint. _Reinforcements._

There was a clatter and a sharp cry from off in the distance, and the sound of both Phase Two and conventional gunfire. Clint carefully eased his legs up under him, ready to jump up. Mystique pressed a hand down on his arm. "Wait," she whispered.

More shouts, and feet running away from them, and the sound of the scepter firing another blast. Clint flinched.

"Now," whispered Mystique, and she grabbed his wrist, flowed back to her own shape—though still a feathery-textured grey/white, nearly invisible against the snow and the icy ground—and pulled him with her, away from the runway and towards a vague shape that proved to be a cinderblock building.

"We have to get Banner," Clint said as they took shelter in a doorway. "If he's unconscious, he'll change back, and he could freeze to death."

"That'll have to be your job," she said, pulling a Glock from a holster on her thigh. "I'm going to help Erik." She put a hand up to her earpiece—not one of SHIELD's; apparently the Brotherhood had their own comms—and added, "Erik says some of the conventional arms are firing spent-uranium bullets. Be careful."

"Thanks," said Clint. The news just kept getting better.

Mystique took half a dozen steps and vanished into the squall.

The snow seemed to be slacking off just a little, though the wind was still just as strong. Clint worked his way alongside the building, trying to calculate where he'd last seen the Hulk. He stayed low, and twice he saw HYDRA troops who apparently couldn't see him. He let them go rather than give away his position.

There. A small mound, pale-pink against the snow, already becoming dusted with white on the windward side. A HYDRA soldier was standing guard. Clint unslung his bow, waited for a flaw in the wind, and fired. The HYDRA guard dropped without a sound. Clint was already sprinting to Banner. He retrieved his arrow, shook out a space blanket, rolled Banner's limp body onto it, and dragged him behind the nearest building. The wind began erasing the drag marks instantly.

In the distance, shouts, sporadic gunfire and blasts from the scepter continued.

Clint found a door, kicked it in, dragged Banner into the shelter of what looked like a garage. Empty and drafty, but out of the wind and offering at least temporary concealment. Banner's skin was icy, but he was breathing and his pulse was strong. Clint unwrapped him, checked him over. There was a blackened spot about the size of a hand between his shoulder blades; the charred skin had cracked and was oozing blood. Clint bandaged it as well as he could, then shucked off his jacket and covered the scientist with it, wrapping the space blanket over all.

"Iron Man to Avengers, come in," said Clint's headset.

"Okay, it's the apocalypse," said Clint. "I am actually glad to hear your voice."

"Report now, flirt later, Katniss," said Stark.

"I'm holed up in an old garage next to the heliport," said Clint. "The Hulk got nailed with Loki's scepter; he's back to Banner. Unconscious but stable. Magneto and Mystique have engaged Schmidt's men who are trying to put the gate mechanism together. They have their own comms; see if you can patch them in."

"He did," said Mystique's voice. "We have a stalemate. Schmidt is using the scepter to create a shield around the device and his troops. Erik can use magnetic force to shield against their weapons, though it's costing him. They can't hit us, we can't hit them."

"James and I are in the old mine office building," said Cap's voice, "along with Coulson and Natasha. Natasha's wounded but stable. Coulson's fit, and he's working with us, but he's lost his memory."

"Too bad you're not here, Stark," Mystique commented. "We don't have a damn thing that can touch these fuckers. Maybe your offworld blade would have come in handy."

"Shit," said Clint.

"What?" said Stark.

"Got an idea," said Clint. "Give me a second."

He scrabbled frantically in his pocket and came up with a slightly battered wad of feathers. He smoothed them out: the three bits of raven-feather fletching he'd salvaged from his grappling arrow back at the Tower. _Oh, yes, please, _he thought.

"What's your plan?" asked Mystique over the comms.

"Later," said Clint, unreeling a strand of monofilament from the spool in his kit. He keyed his bow to select a broadhead, yanked an arrow out of his quiver, stripped off the fletchings and began tying the others on, as quickly as he could without sacrificing accuracy.

"Okay guys," he said. "I may have something I can use to get Schmidt. But I'm only going to get one shot at it, and I'm going to need a distraction." He knotted the thread and bit off the excess.

"I can take care of that for you," said Cap's voice. "Give me a minute to get to you."

"Hurry," said Mystique. "Erik's not going to be able to hold out much longer."

Clint minutely adjusted the fletchings until they were as good as he could make them. Then he gently unwrapped the space blanket from around Banner's motionless form (still breathing, but no warmer) and took back his jacket.

"Sorry, Doc," he said. "Won't be gone long, one way or the other." Then on the comm, "Cap? You getting close?"

"Here," said Rogers, slipping in the door. "What's our play?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this," said Clint, "but I have what I hope is a magic arrow. Or at any rate, an arrow with magic fletchings. Huginn can fly between worlds. I'm hoping this can fly through Schmidt's magic barrier."

"Worth a shot," said Rogers with a shrug. "What's my role?"

"You go out there and get Schmidt's attention," said Clint, "while I shoot him."

"I've heard worse plans," said Rogers. "Let's go."

They went. Cap bounced his shield off the wall of blue light and yelled, "Schmidt!" in classic showdown-on-Main-Street fashion. Clint, meanwhile, ran up behind the abandoned truck, the noise of the wind covering the sound of his footsteps.

"Captain America!" Schmidt called, with a sweeping gesture of his free hand. "I was wondering when you would turn up. It's been a very long time. You owe me a rematch, I believe, and this time—" he fired a bolt from the scepter, which passed right through the energy barrier. Cap managed to deflect it, but he staggered back a few steps.

"—this time I have a legendary weapon of my own," Schmidt finished. He smiled, eyes gleaming, and fired three more times in quick succession. Each shot drove Rogers back a bit more, and on the last one he staggered and his arm dropped slightly.

"It's very versatile," Schmidt continued. "It can do this," he gestured to the barrier that surrounded him and his men, who were stepping back from the gate device. "It can do this," and he fired a bolt at the device, which hummed and lit up an area about fifteen feet in diameter, like an archway. Bright daylight streamed out of it. "And it can do this," and he fired another bolt at Cap, who staggered back again and dropped to one knee.

"You see your problem," Schmidt said sadly. "I can hit you. You, alas, can't hit me."

Clint smiled. How could he let a cue like that go by? He popped up from behind the truck's hood, drew, aimed, released.

Schmidt's head snapped around at the sudden movement and the scepter followed.

The arrow flew straight through the barrier and into Schmidt's chest.

The energy bolt from the scepter went wide. The barrier collapsed. Schmidt dropped to his knees, eyes and mouth wide open. He wavered for a moment.

Then a skein of blue light from the scepter swirled around him, and he and the scepter vanished together.

* * *

Author's note: in addition to the currently active GOES-13 and GOES-15, two of their predecessors are still in orbit, one inactive and one partially active, as supplements and/or replacements for the active ones.


	34. Chapter 34

**Silently, Invisibly**

_Chapter Thirty-four_

Schmidt had vanished, but his followers were still on-task. One of them opened fire at Steve immediately.

"Stark," Steve said as he ducked behind his shield, "the machine's been activated and the gate's open. How do I shut it off?"

"There's a big obvious on/off switch on top," said Stark, "but even after you switch it off the gate will stay open until it's burned through the charge Schmidt put on it. Basically it'll send a certain mass through, and then it'll collapse. How much mass depends on how much energy he put in."

"Understood," said Cap. HYDRA soldiers were beginning to dart through the gate, three and four at a time. Their buddies were doing an annoyingly good job of keeping him pinned down. "Hawkeye. Get after that switch."

"Copy," said the archer. Steve retreated behind the truck, which had been pretty thoroughly perforated by bullets and charred by Phase Two fire. A rapid pop-pop-pop of pistol fire came from somewhere, and three HYDRA soldiers fell, just a few yards short of the gate. Steve had caught just a hint of muzzle flash in his peripheral vision, but when he looked again there was nothing there. Four more shots, and he could clearly see the muzzle flash this time—the snow had almost stopped—but he still couldn't see the shooter. Two more men went down, and another stumbled but managed to stagger through the gate anyway.

_Well, at least the invisible person's on our side,_ he thought.

"Hawkeye?" Steve called.

"On it," said the archer, and an arrow clanged off the machine. The humming stopped, but the sunlit gate remained open.

"Nice shot," said Steve. "Don't let 'em switch it back on."

"Sir," said Hawkeye, and another arrow struck a HYDRA soldier through the neck.

"Clint," came an unfamiliar woman's voice on the comm, "Erik's wounded. We're pulling back."

"Stay safe, Raven," said Hawkeye. "Thanks for the help."

"Steve, I'm coming up on your six," said James. "Don't shoot me, okay?"

"Thanks for the warning," said Steve, and a moment later James slid into place beside him, rifle at the ready.

"Shall we finish this up?" he said with his crooked smile.

"Sounds good to me," said Steve. "Want a boost?"

"Sure," said James. Steve made a stirrup with his hands, then tossed James up onto the roof of the truck, where he began firing methodically. Hawkeye's arrows kept sprouting from the troops closest to the gate; James took out the ones furthest out, and Steve, under cover of his shield, worked his way into positions where he could pick off those sheltered from the two snipers.

A few minutes later, all the visible HYDRA troops lay still.

"How about the ones on the other side?" James asked, sliding down off the roof.

"I'll deal with them," said Steve, but before he reached the gate there was a shrill scream and a figure charged out of the sunlit arch. It carried two swords, both bloody, and its long dark hair, caught in the sudden blast of wind as it crossed the threshold, hid its face, but Steve yelled "Hold fire!" and ran forward, grinning.

"Sif!" he called, and she tossed her hair back out of her face and laughed back at him. She glanced around, seemed satisfied that there were no living opponents on this side of the gate, dropped her swords and flung her arms around him.

"Steven!" she said, and kissed him soundly. Then she pulled back and said, "You disappointed us. All those who came through the Midgard gate are dead already. I had hoped to find better sport on this side."

"Sorry, we don't have any left over here either," said Steve. "But I have something better. Sif, this is my shield-brother James—Bucky—who I told you about. We thought he had died before I went into the ice, but—"

Sif looked at James with interest, her gaze lingering on his left arm, which gleamed silver-bright through a long rent in his sleeve and the synthetic skin. She let go of Steve and took James's right hand in a warrior's forearm-grip.

"I am honored," she said.

"Likewise," said James, turning the full wattage of his wicked grin on her. "Jesus, Rogers, you've been holding out on me. Any more like her at home?"

"There are no more like her anywhere," said Steve. He looked up as Hawkeye approached. "Sif, this is Clint Barton."

"Lord Hawkeye." She offered him the same handgrip, but added a measured nod of respect, which he returned. Sif grinned suddenly. "But you may have seen me before, though I didn't see you."

Clint gave his secretive smile, and nodded.

"Listen, Sif," said Steve, "we have wounded to attend to. Forgive me for a moment."

"I will help, if I may," she said. She picked up her swords, wiping each blade clean on the snow and drying it on her cloak before sheathing it.

"I'll get Natasha and Coulson," James said.

"Banner's in the garage there," said Hawkeye. "Let me get him some clothes."

"How about your people?" Steve asked Sif. "Did you lose anyone?"

"Thor was struck by one of the light-weapons," said Sif, "But the healers say he will recover. Your folk?"

"Two injured. I hope—"

"Guys, the Helicarrier's almost in range now and the windspeed's safe for the choppers," Stark broke in. "They'll be there in ten."

"Thanks," said Steve.

"By the way, Legolas, how the hell did you land my jet on a helipad?"

"He had help," said a suave male voice. "And we'll take care of takeoff for you too." Jet engines fired up and they all turned to look as the jet rose vertically off the runway to just above the rooftops. The engines' roar rose to a howl and then a scream, and the jet accelerated rapidly and streaked into the sky.

"Son of a—" Stark's voice began, but the other cut it off.

"I'll be in touch, Mr. Stark, if you ever get tired of those sixty-two pesky little metal fragments. Five of them are dangerously close to your aorta, by the way." And then there was the sound of a radio link being shut off.

Sif stood guard by the gate as the others brought the wounded out to the helipad. Hawkeye stripped a parka, boots and pants off one of the dead to outfit Banner (conscious now, but still weak). Steve helped dress him. The wound on his back had scabbed over, but the skin hadn't regenerated.

Meanwhile James, with Coulson's help, brought Natasha out on a stretcher, well-wrapped in blankets. She was still out cold, but breathing normally. Coulson hovered protectively over her, eyeing the others. His gaze passed over Hawkeye with no sign of recognition, and Steve saw the archer flinch and look away.

"Before we leave, we have to do something about this gate," Steve said.

"Come back with me," Sif said suddenly. Steve hesitated, glanced at James.

James shrugged. "Still following you," he said.

"I—" Steve thought about it. It would solve a multitude of problems; no question of James being imprisoned by SHIELD or pursued by his former handlers. And it might ease some of the tension between Hawkeye and the Widow. And of course, it would relieve him of a great many headaches of his own.

But… he shook his head. "Still can't back away from a fight," he said.

"It'll be a hell of a fight, Steve," said James softly.

"I'll back you," said Hawkeye.

James raised an eyebrow. "For Natasha's sake?"

"Hers and yours."

James nodded slowly. "All right."

Steve keyed his comm. "Stark. Is there a gauge or something on this thing that will tell you how much it can transport?"

"Yeah," said Stark. "Look on the front panel. Three windows. What's in the one on the left?"

"It says zero-one point three-three-eight," Steve read.

"Metric tons," said Stark.

"Oh," said Steve, and he felt a smile begin to grow on his face. He looked over at Sif.

"How about you take the Gate home with you?" he asked her.

She grinned. "Steven," she said. "You are a born tactician."

"Do it," said Stark. "I can send instructions via bird mail later. I'm sure they can come up with a power source; it won't take nearly the juice the Bifrost did."

The gate device—Steve, like everyone but Stark, steadfastly refused to call it "The Asgardinator"—had retractable wheels, and it was only a few moments' work for James, Steve and Sif to push it across the threshold into the sunlight of Asgard. A small group of Asgardian soldiers gathered on the other side to look it over.

"You'll still need more mass to shut it down," said Stark.

"Five hundred seventy-four kilos," said Steve. "Does it matter which direction?"

"Nope," said Stark.

"Let's bring the bodies home," said Steve. "Some of them probably have families."

He kept a close eye on the gauge as the Asgardian soldiers passed the bodies through, one at a time. The last one brought the total down to eighty-five kilos.

Sif embraced Steve one more time.

"I shall visit you soon," she said. "And your friends." She smiled at all of them, but lingered a little on James. _Some things never change,_ thought Steve. Sif stepped through the gate. A few cinderblocks later, the portal shut down.

Above them, two black helicopters emblazoned with the SHIELD logo were descending.

"Let's go home," said Steve.

* * *

**Epilogue**

The aftermath of HYDRA's coup attempt was messy and long-lasting. Communications disruptions lasted for months. A tsunami struck the South Kuril Islands; the authorities weren't able to get warnings out in time, and dozens died. Businesses folded, disease outbreaks took longer to contain, shipping and manufacturing took hard hits.

And people adapted, and mostly found a way to get by. Some NGOs came up with brilliant workarounds; the Stark Foundation made carefully-targeted donations to encourage this sort of innovation, and pressured other major donors to do the same.

And slowly, SHIELD got its house back in order.

Hawkeye disappeared right after debriefing. He was gone for a week, and came back looking relieved and a little smug. When Steve asked him about it, he just shook his head and said, "Checking on an old friend. Didn't need my help."

Banner's recovery was slower than expected, but uneventful. Natasha's was so swift that Steve suspected the Russians had had more than one trial with the serum.

Coulson vanished for nearly a month, but when he came back he remembered all of them. He resumed his old job (the exact parameters of which were known only to himself and Fury). And predictably enough, he took James under his wing. James, who had begun to chafe under the combined protectiveness of Steve and Natasha, seemed to take to Coulson's deadpan style. Coulson's desk acquired a full set of signed Bucky Barnes collector cards. In mint condition.

Stark threw himself into upgrading James's arm and designing a fabric that could withstand spent-uranium rounds.

And the highlight of Steve's birthday party (the real one, not Independence Day) was James and Pepper teaching Sif and Thor the Lindy Hop.

* * *

*author takes a deep breath*

Wow. Um, that turned out to be a lot longer than I anticipated when I started it. I need to distribute some thanks.

Thanks to my family for putting up with my endless nattering about plot holes and character motivation, for a story none of them have read nor ever intend to read.

Thanks to my glorious beta Ael_tRlailiiu, who has been endlessly patient with my demands that she work for me for free. Seriously. I owe you.

All hail Marvel, Joss Whedon, and the cast and crew of the Avengers movie. Special thanks to Alan Sylvestri for the awesome score, which not only inspires me to write, it pumps me up for my morning commute. And, um, I might sort of have the theme as my ringtone.

Thanks to all my loyal readers and reviewers, especially peppertheband on fanfiction dot net, who always makes me laugh, and TNH on AO3 who said just the right thing at just the right time to push me over the hump at the end. Also DaisyNinjaGirl, wtgw, susan voight, Thimblerig, The Sugarfaerie, TheNaggingCube, Shazrolane, katie_m, Darklady, SadieHyde, Narknon, luuv2shop, Insomniatic95, Malty, . , RevengerTigger, NSFL, and all the other assorted commenters, kudos-leavers and guests.Y'all are all wonderful.

And now I am going to take a break and deal with some real-life issues, which are a lot less fun and a lot harder to resolve and do not come with beautiful people in cool uniforms. Stay cool, everyone. If you run out of things to read, check out my bookmarks on AO3 (fanfiction dot net readers, my pseudonym over there is the same as it is here, and you can find AO3 by searching for "archive of our own" in quotes).


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